


Too Hot To Handle

by Castielslostwings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (in recovery), Addict Castiel (Supernatural), Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Reality Show, Beaches, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Blow Jobs, Castiel Behaves Like Endverse Castiel (Supernatural), Dean/Cas Big Bang (Supernatural), Dean/Cas Big Bang 2020 (Supernatural), Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, Fluff and Smut, Getting Together, Intimacy, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Lonely Dean Winchester, M/M, Marijuana, Mechanic Dean Winchester, Ocean, Pansexual Castiel (Supernatural), Partying, Self-Discovery, Switching, Tattooed Castiel (Supernatural), Touch-Starved, Yoga Instructor Castiel (Supernatural), too hot to handle au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:14:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 41,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26581972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castielslostwings/pseuds/Castielslostwings
Summary: When Dean Winchester signs on to film a reality TV show promising an all-expenses-paid, “hedonistic holiday” with other sex-loving singles at a luxurious tropical resort—plus a cash prize—the last thing he expects is to make an instant, profound connection with another contestant on day one. Even more surprising is finding out that the captivating and quirky, orgy-loving Castiel somehow feels the same.So when Production drops the bomb that all explicit affection will be off-limits with the goal of encouraging participants to forge “more meaningful connections,” it feels like the sign Dean’s been waiting for. All that’s left to do is figure out whether he and Castiel (and all the baggage they come with) fit together in more ways than—well, the obvious.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 591
Kudos: 967
Collections: DCBB 2020, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ever since I lost like ten hours of my life watching this absolutely terrible show, I knew I had to turn it into Destiel. So why not for the DCBB?! FYI, the story focus is not on the "reality TV" aspect as much as it is on Dean and Cas's budding relationship. So if you're not a huge fan of the nature of reality TV, don't let that deter you. Although, if you've seen "Unreal," there's a very subtle shoutout or two in there as well. ;)
> 
> Thank you endlessly to my amazing partner-in-crime, Hitori-Alouette. Ani, you are incredible! The art is just beautiful and matches the tone of the fic so perfectly. I feel so grateful you chose this story and that we get to see some of the scenes brought to life by your hand. Thank you so much. Please everyone go check out her [Art Masterpost (tumblr)](https://hitori-alouette.tumblr.com/post/631197250904801280/art-for-too-hot-to-handle-by-castielslostwings-for)/[AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26850148) and give her all the love!
> 
> Thank you to @coinofstone and @ladyrandombox for your editing help! I could not have made this readable without you, and to the DCBB mods for running a seamless and fun challenge.
> 
> Spoiler notes about "other" D/C pairings (there really are none): Early on, there is ONE brief kiss between Dean & Lisa, followed immediately by a DeanCas kiss, and Lisa does not pursue him further. There is brief, quickly resolved jealousy on both of their parts towards other contestants. Cas goes on one "date" with Meg but ends it early to go back to Dean. There is no physical contact between Cas/Meg. This is definitely a low-angst love story between Dean and Cas only, with background Charlie/Dorothy, Lisa/Matt.

“TOO HOT TO HANDLE”, SEASON TWO PROMOTIONAL MATERIALS

APPROVED BY NETFLIX, ET AL.

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE:

_“Too Hot To Handle”, Second Season: Final Round casting interviews, Bonus Features mix: “In Their Own Words.”_

_[transcript]_

_The camera footage shows_ Dean Winchester _sitting on a stool. He is shirtless, facing the camera. He smiles and winks._

_Dean: My name is Dean Winchester. I'm an Aquarius, I enjoy sunsets, long walks on the beach and frisky women. Well, you know. Women, men, whatever looks good. Not picky on the equipment someone is packing, so long as they’re hot. I’m a love ‘em and leave ‘em type of guy, and that’s how I like it. Nothin’ too serious. Here for a good time, not for a long time, amirite? What’s that? My number? You mean, digits or hook-up count? [laughs] Uh, are my castmates gonna see this?_

_The footage cuts to_ Castiel Novak _sitting on a stool, facing the camera. He pulls his legs up to sit in a yoga-style pose and tilts his head to the side._

_Castiel: So, in this way, we're each a fragment of total perception—just, uh, one compartment in that dragonfly eye of group mind. Now, the key to this total, shared perception—it's, um, it's surprisingly physical. [pause as a producer speaks off-camera]. Orgies. I’m referring to orgies. I like them very much. They make me very happy._

_Dean: You know, I feel like, people see this [gestures to his body] and their priorities shift. Let’s just say, they’re not thinking long-term marriage material._

_Castiel: Generally speaking, you don’t make meaningful connections during orgies. [he pauses] Generally._

_Dean: Would I be open to it? Like, a relationship? Or just sleeping with someone twice? [off-camera clarification] Um, yeah, I guess. Why?_

_Castiel: I don’t understand that question._

_Dean: Settling down is for other people. Not me. I’m happy with who I am. I’m hot, I’m young, my bed’s never empty. [laughs] I’m good. [Dean is told the cameras have cut, his smile vanishes immediately.]_

_Castiel: I don’t think anyone cares to get to know me well enough for something like that to happen organically. It’s an interesting concept, but unlikely. Sex is connection enough for me. [Castiel looks down at his hands. There is a long pause]. I’m very satisfied._

_[end transcript]_

***

The luxury catamaran whose netting Dean is currently splayed out on is a far cry from his modest apartment overlooking an overflow parking lot back in Kansas. The boat’s double hulls cut effortlessly through the turquoise blue waters of the Gulf of Mexico, sending warm spray up into the air as it races Dean and his new cast members away from the Four Seasons Punta Mita and around the peninsula to their future filming location and home-away-from-home. 

Up until this morning, they’ve all been kept somewhat sequestered in their hotel rooms, banned from using the resort facilities unless accompanied by a producer, and so far, Dean hasn’t actually found a producer willing to stand guard while he swims a few laps. Needless to say, between that and the electronic device ban, it’s been a boring couple of days. 

Not exactly what Dean imagined he was signing up for when he scribbled his John Hancock onto the dotted line of his very first reality show contract. 

Especially when the recruiting for said show revolved around phrases such as, “enjoy the hedonistic holiday of your dreams while getting paid to let us film it.”

As far as Dean is concerned, it’d take a real narcissistic nightmare to read that and think, “Oh, this is for me!” And yet, here he is. Dean supposes the way the next twenty-four hours go for him will have a lot to do with whether he ever speaks to his surrogate sister Jo again. If the last forty-eight are any indication, magic eight ball says, “all signs point to no.” 

Not that _Jo_ forced him to steal Sam’s camera in order to film a video audition and send it off to Hollywood. Nor did she drive him to the airport and put him on a plane so that he could go to the invitation-only, in-person round in L.A. that narrowed those video submissions down even further. And she definitely wasn’t the one who begrudgingly gave his lawyer brother his contract (just to make sure he wasn’t accidentally selling his soul) before freely signing and returning it to Netflix Studios' Human Resources team with his bank account information stapled to the back. 

No, all Jo did was mention the ad in passing. She even framed it as a joke, dunking on Dean for his endless parade of hookups that never stay past breakfast. “Might as well use your skanky lifestyle to make bank,” were her exact words, as she tossed the newest issue of _Backstage_ down in front of him on the breakroom table. 

Still, Dean would never have known about the opportunity if Jo wasn’t endlessly trolling that magazine and the internet for open calls, so it’s definitely her fault. Chick thinks she’s the next Anna Kendrick or whatever (not that Dean would know who that is. He definitely has not watched Pitch Perfect and the sequel while crying into his Crunch Cookie Crunch about how lonely he is). _Continues_ to think that, despite going on hundreds of auditions and boasting a working resume nearly as short as Dean’s. And Dean’s worked at Jo’s stepdad’s auto shop and nowhere else since he was sixteen, so. 

It’s just—Dean’s never had money. Comes with the territory of raising his kid brother nearly on his own. Their father was too drunk and too depressed to do the job himself, basically causing trouble and making things worse until he finally had the decency to kick the bucket and stop forcing Dean to care for him, too. Maybe once upon a time, Dean thought he could have something better, but kid dreams are just that. Reality is, the night his mom died, Dean’s dreams went with her—even if he didn’t know it yet. 

That’s okay, though. He raised a good kid. Dean is damn proud of Sammy and the job he did delivering him alive and responsible to adulthood. But kids ain’t cheap, and Dean’s used to busting his ass only to dump every penny he makes into Sam’s well-being. Whether it’s rent or essentials or tuition (or Sam’s ever-growing feet), there’s _always_ been something. It’s only within the last year—after Sam graduated law school and took a job with an up-and-coming firm that specializes in human rights cases—that Dean has eased off on insisting the kid accept his help.

So now, he’s sort of floundering. Dean has his own debts—not the least of which he owes to Bobby, Jo’s stepdad and both his longtime boss and the closest thing to a _real_ father Dean’s ever known. After his dad crashed the classic ‘67 Impala Dean basically grew up in, causing the accident that took his life, Dean wanted to rebuild it from scratch. But again, money wasn’t a thing he had going for him, and cars are expensive. Being a forever friend of John’s himself, Bobby understood that fixing the Impala was Dean’s way of grieving, of coping—that it was the _fix_ he could never make happen for his broken father. 

Which is beautiful and all, and Dean will never not be grateful to Bobby for fronting him the repair costs, but chick-flick moments aside, that shit ain’t free. Not that Bobby’s asking, but Dean _wants_ to pay him back. Maybe it’s the last part of his grieving process or maybe he just thinks Bobby deserves it, either way—now that Sam is off supporting himself, Dean’s determined. 

Sure, he could bust his ass pulling overtime for the next ten years and put away pennies, but Dean also wants to live a little, too. He’s put his entire life (gladly) on the backburner for his brother, sacrificed every shot he could have taken for himself to make sure that Sam was always okay. As much as Bobby deserves his money back, Dean equally deserves to stretch his legs before he’s sixty and gray and his life is over. 

So whether Jo was joking or not, the idea of Dean semi-prostituting himself on camera for fun and cash in a luxurious tropical location? Not the _worst_ half-baked idea she’s ever heard. 

There’s lots to be tempted by, if he’s being honest. There’s the winner’s pot, which Dean knows will start at one hundred thousand dollars. He’s aware that there will be “challenges” (not otherwise specified) while on the show that could affect the pot, but for a guy who’s never had so much as an extra grand in his checking account, that’s hardly a dealbreaker. Plus, every participant also has their travel and expenses covered _and_ receives a daily filming stipend that’s more than Dean usually makes in a week. 

Ultimately, whatever happens once the cameras start rolling, he’s coming out of this in better financial shape than he went in.

All that, and Dean’s still got the cherry on top of this no-apparent-downsides-sundae, which is that he’s basically going to a celebrity-level exclusive vacation spot with a bunch of other attractive, sexed-up singles who have been prescreened to be DTF. It’s like a bar where the bouncers do the work for you, only allowing sure things to make it through the front door, everyone else go home. 

From the outside, Dean can definitely see why Jo thought of him when she first read the ad. It _looks_ like his wet dream, all wrapped up in shiny paper with a bow on top, and in a way, it is. No doubt, he’s going to have a great time. Whatever the surprises are (and Dean knows there’s a twist coming), he’ll roll with it. It’ll be no worse than in his hometown, where whether he’s swiping on Tinder or Grindr, his playboy reputation precedes him. 

After all, _everyone_ in the small town of Lebanon knows that Dean isn’t relationship material, knows not to even try. The hook-up scene is nothing new for him, and it’ll be the same story here as there—Dean’ll love ‘em, leave ‘em, and hopefully pick up some cash and good times along the way before he has to return to his regular, dull life in Kansas. 

Right?

The thing is, all of that is a lie. Dean’s dug himself quite a hole back in Lebanon, and he’s paying the price in perpetuity. Sure, he was that guy in his younger days. And yes, he’s left a string of broken hearts in his path. But he had a reason— _Sam_ was his focus for a long time, and now Sam is gone and Dean is…well, Dean is lonely. Unfortunately, in a town where everyone knows everyone, everyone knows someone who’s been with (and been burned by) Dean. 

So no one’s buying that he’s just not that guy anymore, that he _does_ actually want more. Even if that’s just someone to wake up to who isn’t already putting on their pants and trying to think of an excuse to not trade numbers with him. Maybe not a white picket fence, per se, but at the very least, someone who sees Dean for more than a pretty face and an easy lay. In Lebanon, anyway, that pipe dream just ain’t happening.

At the end of the day, it’s easier for Dean to keep up the act. His virtual match list is never empty and neither is his bed, if he doesn’t want it to be. It’s just that no one is interested in _staying._

But hell, if that’s going to be Dean’s life, might as well take advantage and use it to make some cash. Pay Bobby back, maybe have enough left over to spruce up his shitty place with a nicer couch and a memory foam mattress. Dean’s not getting any younger and his back isn't getting any less knotted. He can do this—he’s good at playing the game, at putting on a show, he’s been doing it for years. It’ll be a piece of cake to turn on the charisma and play his “sexy bad boy” image up for the camera. If sex and charm are the playing cards, Dean would bet on himself walking out the winner of this thing any day of the week. 

That _is_ what this show was looking for, after all—that much has been clear from the jump. The casting agents seemed to be upfront: they didn’t even pretend they weren’t caping for borderline sex-addicts with little-to-no ability or desire to make meaningful connections beyond nightly, well, _meaningful connections._

The first in-person interview Dean went to, the female casting assistant practically drooled all over herself when he walked in the door and most of the questions revolved around the number of partners he’s had and the average length of his relationships (“twelve hours?”). They _loved_ him. Clearly, this show has a vision that fits Dean’s image perfectly. 

There is a catch, the casting agents told him as much—though not anything approaching a specific, not even a hint. Whatever it is will be revealed on set, and by then it will be too late (in theory) for Dean to bail. As they talked to him, the Hollywood types just sat with pens poised, appraising Dean’s reactions and asking if he was “okay” with there being an undisclosed “twist or two,” and Dean said _sure, why the hell not?_ By that point, he was already in waist-deep, might as well duck his head under the water.

And _boom,_ that was that. Dean became Dean Winchester: future reality TV star (and maybe softcore porn participant, if the show’s premise is anything to go by). 

Which brings him to the here and now, poised and ready to turn on all that charm and charisma at a moment’s notice. From his place at the front of the boat, Dean can’t really see the other contestants and hasn’t tried to. Despite the fact that some of them have been in relatively close proximity while waiting for the boat and on the ride, Dean’s been well-behaved. The producers asked them to maintain polite distance for now, as they want to film their first impressions of each other once they’re finally on location. 

Although, as far as Dean’s seen, the crew hasn’t _stopped_ anyone from interacting outright, but Dean’s kept to himself. The way he figures it, he’s a shitty liar and an even worse actor. The more real he can keep his reactions, the better off everyone will be for it. Still, the glimpses he’s caught of the rest of the cast, he’s pretty damn happy with. Girls and guys alike—even without hair and makeup done, everyone looks made-for-TV attractive. Dean hasn’t laid eyes on a single soul he’d kick out of bed. 

There have to be more coming, though. Right now, there are only four or five other people on his boat, and one of the producers let slip that there are ten of them total. Dean supposes that makes sense, prolonging the mystery and making them think they have a handle on what’s happening just to rip the rug out from under their feet when they're least suspecting it. That’s the nature of reality TV (or so Dean’s heard, he’s not exactly a huge fan). 

For the time being, Dean’s just staying in the present, soaking up the tropical rays and enjoying the boat ride for what it is. He stretches a little, closes his eyes behind his sunglasses and tucks his hands behind his head, interlacing his fingers. There’s sun on his face, a warm breeze in his hair, and soft sea spray caressing his body. The ocean water soaks teasingly through his thin t-shirt and swim shorts and drips from the back of his legs where they’re pressed against the netting.

Really, if this is all Dean gets to take away from this experience, he’s good. This is fucking awesome. Well worth the five hours he had to spend in the flying tin-can deathtrap to get here, and the two three-hour-per-leg trips to L.A. and back, _not_ that Dean’s counting. 

All too soon, the catamaran is slowing and bumping against a dock. Yawning lazily, Dean arches his back and sits up to take in his new home away from home. Lifting his sunglasses, he lets out a low whistle at what he sees. In front of him is a wide, white-sand beach with the same gorgeous water lapping quietly at its shores. Beyond that, there’s verdant grass framed by a lush, thick treeline and a sprawling bungalow nestled within it. 

Even from here, Dean can tell that the place is _beyond_ fancy—the walls of the house open all the way up, though it’s too dark beneath the trees to parse out what’s inside from this far away. Close enough to see in detail are several scattered gathering spots to sit and hang out on both the grass and the sand. Some are sporting hammocks, some chairs, and there’s even a fire pit. Dropped between the treeline and the house is an elaborate infinity pool that Dean is pretty sure has the outline of a hot tub tucked up and to the right of it. It’s hard to be sure from the distance, and Dean can’t wait to get up there and check it out for himself.

As Dean gawks, his fellow castmates start disembarking somewhere behind him and to his right, but Dean doesn’t pay them any mind. At least, not until one of them speaks and he’s left without much of a choice.

“Pretty swanky, isn’t she?” 

Dean looks up, squinting against the sun in a way that he’s sure will not do his features any favors, but the owner of the voice is kind enough to step in front of the light before Dean can even answer. “Uh, yeah,” he says, openly sizing the guy up. Tall, more or less Dean’s height, _maybe_ an inch on him, with light brown skin, a closely-shaven head, and a sharply-cut goatee that basically screams “high-maintenance.” Weirdly, Dean doesn’t get that vibe from the guy himself, though his eyes declare that this is not a dude he’s going to be able to bullshit. Well, hell. He’s hot though, Dean will give him that. He definitely wouldn’t say no to an invite, so he decides to play nice. 

“Name’s Dean,” he says, holding out his hand. “Winchester.”

“Victor,” the guy replies, slapping Dean’s hand before shaking it firmly and smiling. “Henrikson. D.C., you?”

 _Oh, yeah, right move,_ Dean thinks. _Hotter when he smiles._ “Whoa, nowhere even half as exciting. Sleepy small-town Kansas, that’s me.” 

Victor sucks in his bottom lip and nods, not even remotely trying to hide that he’s checking Dean out. His eyes pan over Dean’s body, but for whatever reason, it feels less sexual than it probably is. Under Victor’s gaze, Dean kind of feels like he’s in an interrogation room, pinned beneath a spotlight. Not necessarily a bad thing—in the right situation, could be sexy as hell. There’s just something about the guy that puts Dean off-balance. 

“Guess we should, uh—”

“Yeah,” Victor agrees with a nod, hopping over the side of the boat and landing lithely on the dock with ease, like a damn cat. “Nice to meet you, Dean. I’ll see you around.” 

_Alright,_ Dean thinks, _okay._ He’s clearly not the only one who’s brought the charm and is here to play. A tingle runs down his spine as the possibilities of what might lay before him really begin to sink in. 

_Let the games begin._

***

Once off the boat, the suits milling around seem to decide that they’re done playing the odds, assigning each of the five players their own producer and generally keeping them apart. They’re told very little, save for that their suitcases will be brought to their room, but not where said rooms might be. Across the grounds, the technical team is finishing setting up, and there are so many wires, lights, cameras, and other equipment Dean keeps struggling not to trip over, he wonders how they’ll possibly be able to make it look as if the crew isn’t there. 

Dean’s producer, Rachel, assures him that won’t be an issue. She’s cute, but not really Dean’s type—perpetually on the move and sporting a dry sense of humor that reads to him as insincere. She rambles on without waiting for any response from Dean about how the first season’s contestants worried about the same things, and how they all ended up forgetting the cameras and crew were even there at all.

 _Unlikely,_ Dean thinks, but he doesn’t say so. He just smiles and nods. 

“Anyway,” Rachel continues, scuffing the toe of her Converse on a paver next to the pool while Dean eyes the water with open longing. The Mexican sun is _hot,_ and Dean can feel the sweat beginning to bead on his forehead, to track down his neck and back. Being out on the ocean was far cooler, and Dean misses the spray already. He wonders when they’ll be left to their own devices. 

“Later, after they film the intros, most of these people will leave. Producers will trade off being available to you, but most everything will be run from out of sight, out of one of the rooms in the back of the resort. Cameras are mounted _everywhere,_ so assume you’re never really alone.” She pauses to point out a few locations with well-hidden lenses that Dean hadn’t actually noticed (trees, furniture, a _whiskey bottle)_ before continuing on. “And, of course, there will be cameramen floating around, but it’s their job to be subtle. Just ignore them. So,” she says coyly, jabbing her elbow into Dean’s, forced-friendly. “Anyone…catch your eye yet?” 

Dean just shrugs and pretends to be busy taking in his surroundings. Not difficult—there’s plenty to look at. Adjacent to the patio where they’re standing, there’s an elaborate sitting area with a long, cushioned couch and a couple of extra-wide chairs or loveseats. _Good for sharing,_ Dean notes. It looks to him as if the sitting area can be closed off if needed, but right now all the walls are open to the outside air. Behind those couches and chairs sits a bar, and to the right, beyond the would-be wall, is the hot tub Dean clocked earlier. 

When it’s clear Dean isn’t going to give up his secrets that easily, Rachel shifts gears, taking him by the arm on a modified tour of the resort so that she can point out all of the amenities. Well, _part_ of the resort, anyway—the kitchen, the sitting rooms, the beach—but the bedrooms are still nowhere to be seen. Not just that, there are also several sections of the place that are marked off-limits completely to the cast. Rachel makes sure to let him know (more than once) that those areas are reserved for the crew and production team only. 

_And God knows what else_ , Dean thinks. 

Overall, the resort is as fancy and luxurious up close as Dean suspected from the boat; and that makes him suspicious. If the location and the accommodations aren’t the twist… _what the hell is? No bedrooms yet, are they going to be sleeping on the beach, or what?_ God, beach sex sucks. Dean’s got zero interest in turning his asshole into the approximation of a fancy cocktail with a salty (sandy) rim, _pun fucking intended._

During the tour, Rachel is careful to skirt around the other contestants and their respective leash-holders, maintaining a respectable distance that ensures they can’t interact. Despite that, Dean still manages to exchange coy, interested smiles with a petite little brown-haired, dark-eyed bombshell that immediately jumps in front of Victor in Dean’s potential conquest line. 

As he’s glancing over his shoulder to watch said bombshell walk away, Dean catches Rachel’s smug smile in his periphery, no matter how quickly she tries to school it. Between that and her accidental “slip” that this season _everyone_ swings both ways, she’s starting to really ping Dean’s radar. While his trash TV tastes fall squarely into the overly dramatic medical soap realm and _not_ reality, Dean did his damn research before getting on the plane to come here. Enough to know how manipulative producers can be, how everything they say to a contestant should be put into context, and as such, Dean makes a note to keep this chick at arm’s length. 

Fortunately, it’s not even five minutes after they leave the hot brunette behind before the director is calling for everyone to line up to film official entrances. _That_ involves corralling all five of them into the courtyard off to the side of the house while hair and makeup fuss over their sweaty faces for another endless number of minutes, and Dean _really_ needs a beer. 

He squints in the bright light, feeling _very_ unsexy and probably on the verge of sunburned. It has to be close to one hundred degrees in the direct sun, and the other contestants look like they’re all feeling about the same. No wonder they weren’t supposed to “connect” yet, this would make for terrible TV. 

As he’s primped and powdered by a tiny blonde girl who has to stand on her toes to reach his hair, Rachel shows up again, telling Dean without mincing words to lose his shirt. He does, but only because it’s hot as balls out here and his assets are good. If he’s going to be sweaty and irritable, abs on display might be all he has going for him, at this point. Rachel rewards him immediately with an icy bottle of water, and Dean grudgingly decides she might not be the _worst_ person on the planet.

“They turned on fans out there,” Rachel says, patting his shoulder comfortingly and then making a face when her hand comes away sweaty. “They’ll read like wind on camera. And there’s alcohol. _Lots_ of it,” she emphasizes. “You guys will walk out one by one, but those are really the last concrete instructions we’ll give you. Once you’re down on the patio, introduce yourself, drink, hang out, have fun. Be yourself, that’s what got you here.”

Dean hadn’t realized he’d grumbled his misgivings out loud, but after hearing what Rachel has to say, he’s not sorry about it. “Thanks,” he says gruffly, sipping some of the water and letting it soothe his dry throat.

“Loosen up,” Rachel tells him with a wink, waving his wrinkled shirt at him as she backs up towards the entryway down to the patio. “Everyone wants you, Dean.” 

In response, Dean sighs and runs a hand through his sweat-damp hair. Even if that’s true, is it worth what he’s apparently gotten himself into? Just as he’s seriously considering flagging down the next asshole with a headset and booking himself a one-way ticket back to Kansas, the brunette from earlier turns around from where she’s waiting to make her entrance. Aside from her, Dean’s alone in the courtyard now, having been saved for last (well, if you don’t count the makeup girl blotting frantically away at his forehead like there’s any chance of getting ahead of that mess). 

She smiles gently, and she’s cute enough that Dean _almost_ bothers to look up from the way her chest is squeezed into the barely-qualifies-as-clothing bikini she’s wearing. _Yeah, alright._ He supposes he could stay _one_ night. From the middle of the courtyard, Dean watches her go, bikini-covered ass swaying beneath the gauzy sarong tied around her hips, and Dean just feels…empty.

Horny, but empty.

The assistant director standing at the top of the courtyard is coordinating each cast member’s entrance with the filming crew down on the patio. He waves Dean forward and then holds up a hand. “Wait for my cue,” he mutters, barely making eye contact with Dean at all. Already exhausted, Dean slumps against the wall of the house, trying to cop a little shade while he can. 

The moist skin of his bare arm rubs against the stucco and comes away dirty, and Dean can’t help but fantasize about the pool once again. Maybe more so than the human eye candy he’s supposed to be dreaming about. Maybe he’ll talk someone into sex _in_ the pool tonight— _that has to be allowed, right?_

The overhang above Dean’s head doesn’t jut far enough out for its shade to cover his entire body, leaving one shoulder crisping up further in the brutal sun. Tomorrow, he’s lotioning up like no one’s business. The last thing Dean needs is a sunburn getting in the way of his good time here. No one daydreams about fucking a lobster, let’s be real. Hell, maybe he can find a willing volunteer to put the stuff on for him…parlay that into… _w_ _ho knows?_

At least the lower patio area they’re filming the meet and greet on is set beneath a big copse of tall trees _and_ right off of the beach. With the fans and the ocean breeze coming in, it should be way cooler down there. Impatient, Dean braves the sun to lean out and around the A.D. blocking his way, trying to get a glimpse of what’s going on. From what he can see, it looks as if they’re making the hottie with a body redo her entrance.

 _God,_ Dean hopes they don’t do that to him. He’s no good at faking it. Those casting assistants were stupid as hell not to camera-test his ability to read back lines, if that’s what they’re expecting. 

While Dean’s busy spying, trying to figure out who is checking out who (and who his competition might be in that department), he doesn’t hear the A.D. say, “Got it, go for Dean,” into his headset. “You’re live,” the guy adds, his tone annoyed as he taps the battery pack tucked into Dean’s shorts. The mic itself is wound around his neck like some kind of douchey hipster necklace, and Dean suddenly wishes he hadn’t been so easy about taking off his shirt. He probably looks like a complete tool.

On the other hand, he’s filming a reality show about emotionally stunted nymphos so, how much worse can he really look?

Despite those misgivings, Dean squares his shoulders, puffs out a bracing breath to psych himself up, and punches his fist into the palm of his opposite hand. “You got this,” he says out loud, only belatedly remembering that he’s being recorded. “Shit,” he murmurs, hoping they don’t use either of those moments in the final cut.

“ _Go,_ ” the ornery director behind him hisses, shoving at Dean’s thigh with the toe of his Birkenstock. Dean makes a face but complies, glaring back over his shoulder at the guy and his clipboard as he walks. The cameras can’t see him until he rounds the corner of the house, so Dean has a moment to slap on his most charming smile, step into his “playboy” persona, and gear up. 

As bad of an _actor_ as he might be, strangely enough, Dean doesn’t consider this the same thing. Though he’s smart enough to know that at its heart, it is, playing himself is also something Dean’s been doing for as long as he can remember. Being the charming, aloof, hot but emotionally unavailable slut is easy, and it’s safe. It gets Dean laid, allows him all of the companionship with none of the risk, heartache, or time commitment. Obviously, that last thing’s a lot less of a problem now than it used to be.

It’s strange, though, doing it “on tap” and for an audience. Dean’s never questioned the way he acts before, never thought about whether it mattered, beyond what it did for him. Back when his dad was alive, it was necessary. Taking over parenting duties made him soft, made him a target—and Sam was a goddamn kid who deserved someone soft. Their father certainly wasn’t up to the task.

So Dean made himself hard in _every_ other way, so that his dad would leave him alone. He dropped out of school to work a dirty, manly job where he used his hands, the minute Bobby would hire him. He drank beer, stole it from his dad’s stash, which—as long as the supply in the house never ran dry for _him_ —John approved of. He dated lots of girls, bragged loudly about using them and dumping them so that his father would clap him on the shoulder and say, “Atta boy, Dean!” 

And because John thought he _was_ those things—a hard, manly, asshole—Dean was able to keep Sam safe, keep him sheltered from having to do the same. He was able to do the “motherly, womanly,” things that needed doing when John wasn’t around to see. Able to keep their place clean, to vacuum, and to cook. To do the dishes and the laundry, to help Sam with his homework, to listen to him cry about his problems with friends and with girls, to tuck him in at night and kiss him on the head. 

By the time John died, that was just how things were. Dean was who he needed to be, for Sam. The only thing that changed after it became just the two of them was that Dean stopped hiding his interest in men. That was never for his brother, anyway. Sam couldn’t care less who Dean dated; would wear any Pride t-shirt happily on Dean’s behalf without a second thought about it.

The first time Dean brought home a man from the bar, Sam barely looked up from his geeky AP textbooks and his endless SAT prep. He never said a word other than, “He was nice, Dean,” over coffee and bacon the next morning. And so Dean kept on keeping on; love ‘em, leave ‘em, replace ‘em; all interested parties welcome, long-term prospects need not apply. 

For the most part, the years—and everyone he’s encountered in them—have been good to him. 

But this—this long walk down super-heated patio pavers that Dean can almost feel through his sandals, this trek towards a group of strangers he’s signed up to literally screw on camera for money—this is the _first time_ he feels that mentality might be a mistake. 

_What, is he going to be eighty and preying on singles in bars? Do eighty-year-old women go to bars? Maybe by then, they’ll have figured out how to put your consciousness into a younger body or discovered the Fountain of Youth._

Dean can dream.

As he approaches the group, Dean can hear everyone chattering on about how hot he is, grinning wide smiles and turning hopeful faces towards him, waiting to give him a hug or to shake his hand. And that’s generally how his intros go—hugs from the girls and back-clapping handshakes from the guys. Dean learns that the petite brunette’s name is _Lisa,_ finds out she feels temptingly perfect in his arms, and gets a full-on confirmation that she’s interested when she’s slow to pull away and makes sure to press her chest tight against his and shimmy. 

All through it, Dean keeps the smile plastered on his face and he flirts like a goddamn champion. The three glasses of champagne he downs within the first ten minutes of being on the patio don’t hurt, but he must be doing something right, because no one yells “Cut!” or tries to make Dean redo his entrance. 

_Small miracles._

The co-ed group naturally separates into two at one point, which no one from the crew discourages. Clustering off to one side are Lisa, another pretty brunette named Alicia, who looks a lot like Lisa but with slightly darker skin, and an ultra-pale redhead who must be wearing SPF 100 to not have burned yet. Dean’s _pretty_ certain her name is Charlie, but she pulled away from him quickly, going tense and ducking her head when he’d hugged her hello, so he can’t be one hundred percent sure. 

That leaves the boys to their own devices several paces away; Dean, Victor, and a buff but bland-looking dude named Matt who won’t stop talking about how he’s a doctor. _Trying_ way _too hard,_ Dean thinks privately, sipping frequently from his champagne glass so that he doesn’t have to try and make conversation with the guy. Victor is cool, though, and Dean’s about to dip his toe into setting up some action later when the set grinds to an unexpected halt. 

“Cut!” the director yells, and Dean turns his head in time to see Alicia put her hand over her eyes and sway, nearly falling over. He bursts into action, closing the four feet or so between them in a couple of quick strides, catching her slim body easily right before she hits the ground. As he scoops her up, Dean can practically _hear_ the swooning going on from the other girls, but he wasn’t putting on a show—Alicia is pale, clammy, and barely with it, and Dean’s only concern is that she’s alright.

Thankfully, there are set medics on standby, and they take over right away once Dean carries the limp girl to a lounge in the shade. The producers are quick to thank him—though Dean has a high suspicion it’s for the quality TV and not Alicia’s well-being—but equally as swift to sweep him back over to the patio where the other cast members are waiting. 

To Dean’s surprise, cameras aren’t put down, mic packs aren’t turned off to save battery, but the newly-acquainted cast members are left to their own devices for a few minutes. Dean gets the feeling that “cut” doesn’t mean what here what it might on the set for a scripted TV show. He’s reminded of Rachel’s warning to assume that he’s always being recorded. Despite that, Dean embraces the break, taking the opportunity to snag a champagne bottle and to go sit in the shade closer to the ocean. 

As he lowers himself down onto another cushioned lounge with a groan of relief, Dean notices a boat on the horizon. Interestingly, it looks a _lot_ like the catamaran they came here on—which is now conveniently missing from the docks—and the new boat appears to be getting closer. Before Dean can really formulate a theory about that, there’s a blur of red hair flopping down on the matching chair beside him.

“Can I unload on you?” probably-Charlie asks bluntly. “I know this is weird and we just met, but trust me, I am _so_ not hitting on you.”

Dean relaxes back against the chair before tipping the champagne bottle up, taking a _long_ swig, and then looking over with his eyebrow raised. “Sure, kiddo,” he says. Honestly, Charlie isn’t his type, not by a long shot, and Dean can already tell the chemistry between them is not the kind that’s going to lead anywhere near a bedroom. Might as well make a friend if he can, but boundaries are important. 

“Oh, thank God,” Charlie responds, clapping a hand over her heart, so roughly her palm makes a slapping sound against her skin. Dean starts a little as her light green eyes dart around furtively, clearly checking to ensure they aren’t being listened in on. Dean knows the mics are live, but the crew looks hot and bored, seeking out shade where they can and standing in front of the misters. As for the remaining cast, they’re wrapped up in each other—though Dean does catch a few stolen glances thrown his way.

“So…what’s up?” Dean asks, when his maybe-new-friend doesn’t automatically continue, still scanning the area behind them like she’s a covert spy instead. “Charlie, right? Gotta warn you, Charles, I’m workin’ real hard not to make a dirty joke about ‘unloading,’ but I’m sensing it wouldn’t be appreciated at the moment.”

When Charlie finally focuses on him, her eyes are wild and her hands are gripping her thighs so tightly her knuckles have turned white. “I’m _gay,_ ” she hisses. “Like, _super_ gay. Not a boy-loving bone in this body, _oh_ no. I can’t even flirt with dudes, I don’t have it in me!” 

“Well shit,” Dean exclaims, passing the bottle, which Charlie takes a grateful sip from and grimaces as it goes down. Alright, no whiskey for her later. “Hey, that’s the last thing in the world that would bother me. I ain’t here to judge.”

“No,” Charlie says slowly, looking over at him like he’s stupid. “But _they_ are.” She’s motioning towards the producers and looks about as freaked out as Sam did that time Dean deserted him at Plucky Pennywhistles and the clown cornered his ass by the ball pit. Kid had nightmares for weeks. 

Unperturbed by Charlie’s anxiety, Dean barely reacts, just shrugging gently and accepting the champagne back when Charlie offers it. “Who cares?” he says, and means it. “I dunno if you’ve noticed, Charlie, but all these idiots care about is good TV. Pretty sure they would have let Alicia hit the ground if it meant they’d get to call an ambulance and show close-ups of a spreading pool of blood on the cement.” He sips his drink, still parched.

“All _you_ gotta do is be equally ruthless. Chat up the women, be loud about the fact that none of the men are ‘your type.’ And most importantly, hit me up if you need a rescue or just a break. I can help you flirt, and plus, I think we could both use a friend who isn’t interested in getting in the other’s pants.” He pauses and then makes a face, wondering if Charlie is insulted by that declaration, but she doesn’t seem to be. “No offense.”

“None taken. You’re not my type either. Let's just say there's one thing there that I wish wasn't, and, um, two things that _aren't_ there that I really kind of miss."

“Cool,” Dean replies as he stifles an amused grin. They pass the bottle back and forth once more, each taking a drink.

“Cool,” Charlie agrees, cracking what looks like a genuine smile for the first time before relaxing her stiff posture. Her iron grip on her legs follows, half-moons left behind by her fingernails notwithstanding. “I always wanted a sorta gay guy as a best friend. You know, like in the movies. Takeout, sleepovers, braiding each other’s hair.” 

Dean snorts and then immediately hacks as the bubbly liquid goes up into his sinuses and burns on the way back down. Charlie, apparently not exaggerating about her inability to interact normally with men, taps the corner of his shoulder stiffly with her open palm. “There, there?”

“Geez, good thing I wasn’t actually choking,” Dean says, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. Charlie looks up at him mournfully—she knows she sucks at this, no need to make her feel worse. “Tell you what,” Dean continues. “You feel worried ever, like someone’s catching on or putting you in a situation you don’t dig, you get my attention and pull on your right earlobe. I see the sign, I’ll come rescue you, make a real scene. I’ll do all the work, make you look _super_ bi or pan or whatever. Sound good?”

Charlie looks like she’s been given a stay of execution, beaming back at him widely. “Thanks, Dean.” 

“No problemo,” Dean replies, sipping his drink again before squinting out at the water and wishing he was in it. The boat is closer, but it should have docked by now if it was coming this way. Instead, it just seems to be sitting there, bobbing gently between turquoise waves. From where he’s sitting, Dean can make out what appears to be two people, one on each hull, just standing there, waiting. Not fishing or swimming or whatever else someone might hire a catamaran to take them to do in the Gulf of Mexico.

 _Suspicious._

“Whaddaya think about that?” Dean asks Charlie, pointing with one finger, the rest still wrapped around the glass neck of the champagne bottle. 

She turns and holds a hand up against the afternoon sun. “Holy bananas,” she says. “What are the odds those aren’t a couple of party crashers?” 

“But why bring them in like that?

Charlie shrugs. “Dramatic effect? Kinda seems to be their thing.” 

“Yeah,” Dean agrees thoughtfully, dragging his thumb over his lip. “You’re probably right.” 

Their conversation is abruptly interrupted by the director calling them all, “back to one,” as if they’re real actors on a set. Upon glancing over his shoulder, Dean sees Alicia laughing sheepishly with Victor, and he narrows his eyes at the apparent competition. Reminding himself that he’s glad Alicia is okay, Dean finishes off the champagne before standing and forcing himself to trek back through the sun to the patio, Charlie trailing slightly behind. Remembering her fears, Dean takes a moment to turn around and squeeze the petite redhead’s shoulder reassuringly. 

“You’re killing it,” he says softly, as Charlie smiles gratefully up at him. “Go get ‘em, tiger.” 

“Do I sense a little love connection here?” Startled, Dean withdraws his hand at the sound of Lisa’s (somewhat jealous-sounding) voice and screws up his face. Before he can reply, though, Charlie chimes in.

“Ew, he wishes,” she says, with a wink that only Dean can see. “Not my type!” Dean just grins and pops open another bottle of bubbly. The girls squeal as the cork goes shooting off into the palm fronds waving in the breeze high above their heads, sticky alcohol spraying all over anyone within a five-foot radius of Dean. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees two of the cameramen close in tight on the scantily clad, wet women. _Not even remotely surprising._

Before anyone can get too caught up, though, the sound of an air horn comes blaring from the direction of the ocean, drawing everyone’s attention. Hand still clutching his fresh bottle, Dean whips around to find the boat he and Charlie were scrutinizing earlier gliding smoothly into port at the dock. There are cameras down on the beach as well as framing their group on the patio now, and when the two figures on the bow come close enough to really see, Dean immediately understands why.

Perched on the catamaran’s right hull is the most unbelievably gorgeous man Dean has _ever_ laid eyes on, hanging carelessly from the rigging. At first, the sun behind him washes out his features, leaving them in shade, though not even the brightness reflecting off of the water can hide the fact that this guy is _stacked_. When the boat floats gracefully to a stop, the angle changes and the light frames him from behind like something out a movie—or from Heaven. 

The man is wearing linen pants that are slung low and cling to his thick thighs in a way that Dean thinks might actually be illegal in several countries. The obscene pants are paired with bare feet and an unbuttoned, collared shirt that showcases a set of abs and hipbones Dean would give his left fucking arm to have a chance to worship on his knees. And when the man looks up, it’s all Dean can do not to fall onto them right then and there.

Mystery dude has a face to match his body, and if he’s being honest, Dean can count on one hand how many times he’s run into a total package like this. If the guy can form one complete sentence and has two brain cells to rub together, he can count on zero. With his dark and wild bedhead, plump lips that curve up into a mischievous little smile, Dean knows he’s in _big_ trouble, and they haven’t even officially met. Something about the crinkles around the man’s eyes says there’s depth to this new arrival that goes far beyond beauty, but that may just be wild hope on Dean’s part.

 _Gorgeous_ doesn’t do him justice. This guy is the kind of physical perfection the ancients wrote epic poems about, painted and carved statues to immortalize for all eternity, and Dean fucking _gets it._ If he could do any of that shit, he’d get started right now. As he stares, Dean could almost _swear_ the man’s unearthly blue eyes glow as the sun halos his head, but it must be a trick of the light. 

It’s only Charlie’s sharp intake of breath and half-drooled, “I shall make me a willow cabin at your gate and call upon my soul within the house—”

Dean snaps out of the trance the beautiful man has trapped him in to jerk his head in his new friend’s direction. “What?” 

“Huh?” Charlie visibly shakes herself off, tears her gaze away from—oh. Right, there was another person on the boat. A chick, if Charlie’s reaction is anything to go by. Dean looks up, checks her out briefly, and returns to smirking at Charlie, who is in fact, close to drooling on herself. The target of her attention is a tall brunette, kind of plain-looking for Dean’s taste, but cute, her extra-long hair braided neatly in a plait over her shoulder. 

“See something you like?” Dean teases, elbowing Charlie in the ribcage.

To her credit, Charlie snorts. “Like you have room to talk. You've got a little…” She mimes wiping drool off of her chin and Dean mimics the action reflexively. After all, he was definitely ogling. “Oh, god, oh god, they’re coming!” 

Dean pulls his gaze from Charlie just in time to see the two new arrivals trudge the last few feet up the sand and onto the patio. As they approach, Dean notices the man is staring right at him, making a beeline for him, in fact. It’s probably because he’s the closest to the water; everyone besides Charlie is behind him. Even still, Dean’s stomach flips in his belly and his mouth goes bone dry. 

Mr. Tall, Dark, and Sexy is _way worse_ up close. He’s at ease in his tan skin, looking and moving like something plucked directly from Dean’s dirtiest fantasies and dropped onto the beach specifically to torture him. His undone shirt ripples in the light breeze and his defined pecs glisten underneath with either saltwater or sweat. A colorful rib tattoo peeks out from behind the shirt, but Dean can't quite see and doesn't want to stare. To make matters worse, Dean’s quickly realizing that the guy’s demeanor bears a striking resemblance to most of the tops in his favorite bookmarked m/m pornos. Confident, bold, unquestionably in control.

Thank _fuck_ for loose boardshorts, though Dean does what he hopes is a subtle adjustment to hide what’s inside of his all the same.

Before Dean can fully comprehend what’s happening, the man is in his space, standing _way_ too close and searching Dean’s face like his life secrets might be written in small print between his freckles. He’s so intense about it, Dean actually wonders for a second if they might be. From only inches away, the man’s eyes are surreal; bluer than either the water or the sky behind him, and way higher on Dean’s list to drown in. 

“Hello,” he says, and _of-fucking-course,_ his voice is liquid sex, Dean might as well just turn around and grab his ankles now. He’s fairly certain his face isn’t fooling anyone at this point. “I’m Castiel,” the man adds, and even though there are scant few inches between them and their eyes are glued together, he somehow finds Dean’s hand and shakes it. “Cas, if you like.”

“Cas,” Dean croaks, sounding like some kind of broken parrot. Embarrassed, he clears his throat and scrambles for the wits he left scattered on the ground the moment this dude’s ship pulled into port. “Uh, personal space?” 

A wide smile spreads across _Cas’_ handsome features, making him about ten times _more_ attractive— _Jesus, fuck—_ and yeah, definitely not fooling anyone. “My apologies,” Cas says, taking a large step back and then to the side, where he proceeds to engage in greeting the rest of the group. Like an idiot, Dean just gawks, at least until Charlie steps up to his side and pushes his chin up with two fingers so that his mouth closes.

“Drink your bubbly,” she mutters, watching her own new interest— _Dorothy,_ from what Dean can hear—make the same rounds as Cas. “This is too good to be true, and I think we’re both going to want to be drunk for whatever’s coming next. Something tells me we’ve got a long road ahead.” 

When he notices that _Cas_ can’t stop looking over his shoulder and past the other cast members’ faces to stare back at _him_ , Dean can’t help but agree. The champagne is weak, but Dean drinks like it’s last call. Not for the first time, he wonders what the hell he’s gotten himself into.

***


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Expectations low,_ Dean reminds himself. Cas is here for the same reason as everybody else—to hook up and have fun, no strings attached. _Eyes on the prize. Break some headboards, shake some floorboards, go so hard everyone involved is walking funny the next day—that’s the name of the game. Don’t you fuckin’ forget it, Winchester._

To his dismay, Dean is kept from interacting much with Castiel over the next couple of hours, though the moments they _do_ share together are no less charged than the first. After filming intros, the crew makes an attempt to fade into the background as the cast is set loose on the property and left to their own devices. The only instructions they’re given are to return to the beach area around eight, dressed for “a party.” 

Dean’s suspicious. 

Once freed from the producers’ clutches, everyone stands around a bit uncertainly, probably not wanting to be the first to cross any proverbial lines. Thankfully, Victor steps up to the plate and gets things moving again—suggesting they all go and check out their sleeping accommodations. 

Whatever Dean was expecting there, it isn’t anything remotely like what they find. 

Despite the fact that everyone here has the potential to be attracted to anyone else, Dean still assumed they’d be separated when it came to actual bedrooms. Maybe they each wouldn’t be given their _own_ rooms, per se, but probably roommates, or at least girls in one room, boys in the other. Apparently, the show’s production team has forgone that idea completely, sticking them _all_ in one big space, furnished with eight queen-sized beds. Four on the left and four on the right, all facing a middle walkway. 

The beds themselves are nice, with cushy mattresses and lots of pillows, but Dean’s slightly confused. The premise of the show is one thing, and it’s pretty clear his castmates have very little reservation about hooking up on camera, but…they’re supposed to do it here?! There’s no privacy at _all._ Does the production team think they’re all totally cool with hooking up at the same time, in the same room? Or is it going to be up to them to develop some elaborate sock-doorknob system and time-share schedule?

At the very least, the bathroom is separate. With a closeable water closet for the toilet, a giant freestanding bathtub, a wide and deep granite sink, and a shower that looks like it could fit half of them inside it at one time, it’s not unimpressive. 

It’s just a _lot_ of shared space.

“They really are hoping for orgies,” Dean muses out loud, letting his palm drift down the smooth, expensive marble that makes up the shower’s walls.

“Plenty of space to get washed up for them, anyway,” a deep voice responds from behind him. Caught off guard, Dean spins around to find Castiel leaning against the sink, his arms crossed over his open shirt and partially bare chest. _Have mercy._

“You into that kinda stuff?” Dean asks casually, trying to look cool by mimicking Castiel’s pose and instead losing his footing and nearly falling head first into the water closet. He recovers by grabbing hold of the pocket door, which rewards him by sliding out and being absolutely _no_ help at all in regaining his balance. Cheeks burning, Dean straightens up to the sound of Castiel laughing, but the look on his face has Dean smiling too. What kind of soulless monster could ever regret making such a gorgeous man look like _that?_

“I am,” Cas says coyly, wandering closer and into Dean’s space once again with absolutely no reservation. “Very much. However…” Here, he pauses, his fingers walking shamelessly from Dean’s belly button up the middle of his chest before reluctantly slipping away, back into Castiel’s fist. Dean shivers, feeling like his body is on fire standing so close to this man, but he resists making a move. The last thing he wants to seem is desperate. 

The green light is _very_ clearly being flashed his way, though. 

“Something about you,” Castiel muses, his eyes tracking from Dean’s chest up to his face when Cas tips his chin up just _so,_ and now Dean feels like his body is disconnecting from his brain. There’s more than pure attraction flowing between them. Whatever it is, it’s powerful, _strong,_ and—well, _something_ is right. “I think you could hold my attention all on your own. It’s been many years since I’ve met someone who—” Castiel cuts himself off abruptly and searches Dean’s eyes, making his breath come short and fast, which Dean fights to hide. 

_Kiss me,_ he thinks, but Castiel doesn’t, just scours him down to his soul with that piercing gaze. 

“Think about it,” Castiel says, before pulling away and stepping backward towards the door to the bedroom. “I’d love to find out.” He disappears into the chaos of the shared sleeping space, leaving Dean behind to fumble for his brain cells and to try and jam them back into his non-functioning head. Castiel is fucking weird, that’s for sure, but it’s a weird Dean is drawn to like a damn magnet. He wants him, wants more of him, in a way that feels terrifying in both its novelty and its strength. 

It makes Dean want to run (swim?) screaming from this bizarre place, as much as it makes him want to follow Castiel blindly wherever he might go.

 _That’s crazy,_ he reminds himself. _You just met the dude._

Dean shakes himself off and decides there’s a simple answer here. He _badly_ needs to get laid. Sounds like Cas is up for that, anyway, and Dean is going to make it fucking happen. _Tonight._

***

After they’ve all settled in and claimed beds, everyone takes turns freshening up and changing from beach-wear into party clothes. While the bathroom is full to capacity with dudes showering and girls straightening hair and putting on makeup, some of the cast slips away to explore the grounds. That includes Dean, though he doesn’t seek out a buddy to explore with him. Instead, he keeps to himself, mainly out there to _finally_ grab a quick dip in the pool.

The mics are waterproof, so Dean leaves his on, as instructed. He plunges in without hesitation, diving smoothly under the glass-like surface with barely a splash to mark his presence.

The water is cool and refreshing compared to the air, and Dean makes no bones about relaxing down into it. After a few laps back and forth, he drapes himself over the side, arms soaking in warmth from the sun-heated pavers. 

Early evening here is quiet and peaceful, the just-setting sun a perfect backdrop for Dean to take a moment and get out of his own head. He exhales intentionally and tries to ignore the mishmash of confusing feelings this day has provoked inside of him. The liquid around Dean’s body buoys him gently, _finally_ relieving some of the stress and tension, as well as cooling his overheated skin.

While he’s floating there, Dean can’t help but notice something interesting. Down on the beach, maybe thirty yards away from the pool, Victor and Alicia are splayed out side-by-side on lounge chairs. Despite feeling like a creepy voyeur, Dean watches intently as they close the space between them and launch into a _very_ enthusiastic make-out session. 

_Well,_ Dean thinks—as he also watches a cameraman capture the whole thing from the POV of Vic’s feet—at least if he and Cas get down and dirty later, they won’t be the first.

Back in the shared bedroom, there are clothes and accessories strewn everywhere as everyone scrambles to look their best for tonight. In Dean’s opinion, that translates more closely to club-ready than upscale party, but he’s not complaining. Not an upscale bone in his body, that’s for sure. The girls especially come out looking hot as hell, and Cas does too. He keeps the linen pants from earlier but trades out his collared shirt in favor of an obscene white tee that puts his nipples on full display. Dean does his best not to drool, what with the way the cotton clings to his muscles and dampens with sweat spots almost the second Cas steps outside the heavy bedroom door.

 _The hell is wrong with him?_ Cas is just a dude. A hot—okay, really hot—dude, but that’s it. 

_Expectations low,_ Dean reminds himself. Cas is here for the same reason as everybody else—to hook up and have fun, no strings attached. _Eyes on the prize. Break some headboards, shake some floorboards, go so hard everyone involved is walking funny the next day—that’s the name of the game. Don’t you fuckin’ forget it, Winchester._

For his part, Dean keeps it simple where it comes to his look—second-skin jeans that show off his best assets combined with a black t-shirt. Fresh gel in his hair after a quick shower, since the sea breeze, pool water, and sun seem to have melted his morning style away and left his skin tacky and gross. Satisfied, Dean winks at the mirror before joining the rest of the group outside their room.

There’s a palpable tension in the air—equal parts unsure anxiety and sexually-charged anticipation for what’s to come—and that energy invades their casual conversations. Even Charlie is distracted and giddy when Dean engages her as they wait to head to dinner, lingering next to the hot tub. She continually looks past him, smiling dopily at that Dorothy chick and glaring at anyone who so much as dares to talk to her. 

It’s pretty cute, Dean has to admit.

Lisa chatting up _Cas,_ on the other hand, her fingers flirtingly squeezing his bicep and then trailing down his forearm—not so cute, and Dean is surprised at the possessive irritation he feels bubble up in his stomach at the sight.

Even more so, he has to cope with the fact that his jealousy is over _Cas,_ not the bendy, busty co-ed who would probably not be opposed to getting in between them (Dean’s guessing).

 _Fuck,_ does he want Cas all to himself? Is that what these stupid feelings are? Dean can’t even remember the last time he cared what a hookup did before or after they were in his bed. This is… unprecedented, to say the least. And _weird,_ and Dean doesn’t like it one bit. Maybe he’s just getting too old for this—that’s what Sam said, anyway, when Dean had given him the contract to review.

“Aren’t you tired of this kind of stuff?” he’d asked, totally non-judgemental but cocky about it all the same. 

“Tired of hot sex on tap with no strings attached and maybe free money? Uh, no,” Dean had replied without even pausing to think about it.

Turns out that maybe Sam was more on the money than Dean thought. He _hates_ when Sam’s right. Kid has the most annoying “told you so” face on the planet.

Dinner is served smorgasbord-style in the kitchen Rachel showed him earlier, and Dean mixes and mingles with nearly everyone _but_ Cas while they eat and drink. The alcohol flows freely, but Dean is sharp enough to take note that the producers have no apparent interest in discouraging the cast from partaking in as much as they like. They want them tipsy, want them to let their guards down. It’s working. 

The atmosphere is fun, though—like a big party, even before the “official” one down on the beach starts. There’s music and dancing, someone stacks and lights the fire pit, and everyone chats freely and drinks deep. Dean winds up having a conversation over margaritas next to the pool with Lisa, who he finds out actually _is_ a yoga instructor to go with that body, and that’s what she was talking to Cas about. 

According to Lisa, Cas likes yoga too, does it every day. While Cas in various yoga poses provides for some _stellar_ mental imagery that Dean _greatly_ appreciates, Cas and Lisa bonding over a shared interest? Not so much. Regardless, Lisa’s job alone would have had him bending over backward (ha) to get her into bed just hours earlier, but now… Dean can’t seem to stop himself from stealing glances across the crowd at _Cas._

If Lisa notices, she doesn’t say anything. 

When eight o’clock rolls around, a couple of the producers un-melt from the scenery to encourage them all down to the beach. The fire pit is roaring in the sand, and there are chairs circling around it on three sides, facing the ocean. That fourth side (between them and the waves) is where the main cameraman sits, but besides him, the ample crew from earlier is nearly gone. 

Dean knows that realistically, there are likely other cameras—both mounted and being held by operators trying to stay inconspicuous, but since only the one guy is in sight, it’s easier than Dean thought it would be to ignore that he’s there.

Or maybe that’s the alcohol talking. Either way, Dean sort of forgets to be nervous, forgets to remember that he’s being filmed, that his actions might end up being watched by millions of people. He’s just Dean, having a good time, thinking about ways to hit on a hot guy he can’t take his eyes off of.

So when a producer pulls Victor aside and whispers in his ear before handing him a blindfold, Dean barely notices. He’s too focused on watching Lisa and Alicia grind on each other while laughing and singing along to the music. Too busy enjoying the way the warm, tropical night air caresses his skin, making him feel free. Too caught up in Cas grabbing his hand, spinning him around clumsily until they’re both stumbling and grabbing onto each other for balance, hands hot on each other’s skin, thin t-shirts the only barriers between them. 

“Alright, alright!” Victor yells, raising his hand and trying to get the group’s attention, while Dean tries not to be resentful that Cas’ hands drop from his hips. “Let’s kick things up a notch, what do y’all say? Blindfold game,” he suggests with a sly grin, dangling the eye mask from his fingertips. “No rules—kiss, touch, whatever you wanna do to the person who’s blindfolded. Then they get to guess who it was.” 

If this isn’t the _weakest_ excuse to get them to take the simmering sexual energy to the next level, then Dean’s a monkey’s uncle. Ploy or not, though, it isn’t a _bad_ idea—hell, Dean’s up for a little physical contact, a little _preview_ of coming attractions. He just— _fuck,_ he hopes Cas is, too. 

Since he’s holding it, Victor puts the blindfold on first. His eyes are barely covered when Alicia springs out of her seat, shoving that boring Dr. Matt dude unceremoniously out of the way in her quest to beat him to Victor’s side. Their kiss is long, with Alicia wrapping her arms around Victor’s neck and really going to town. They’re both attractive, and Dean would definitely have been into watching this earlier, _but—_

Now he’s stealing glances across the fire at a sex-haired hippie, whose own eyes are glued on the steamy scene unfolding. Dean averts his own back to his toes, feeling silly. No way is Cas into him like _that._ Even if—but no, and definitely _not_ this quickly. 

Except that the next time Dean looks up, Cas is looking back, blue eyes reflecting the firelight, which only increases the intensity he’s directing Dean’s way. There are three people in between them, but Dean is feeling brave. Clearing his throat, he lifts an eyebrow. “Cas, not for nothing, but the last person who looked at me like that? I got laid.” 

Instead of replying, Castiel’s gaze only intensifies as his head tips thoughtfully to the side. _Oh, yeah. Dean’s getting some tonight._

Before he knows it, it’s his turn, and Dean’s fingers and toes tingle with anticipation as he slips the mask down over his eyes. He tries to stand still and not fidget as he waits, but it’s tough—especially when he hears a small scuffle in the sand and more than one person laugh, including _that_ laugh, deep and throaty. His mouth goes dry immediately, and Dean licks his lips quickly in response, hoping no one is standing right in front of his face to see. 

_Cas, Cas, please let it be Cas._

There aren’t words to express the disappointment he feels—and the utter confusion that comes flooding in quickly over _that_ —when the lips that touch his own are soft and feminine. He reaches up and feels a perfectly smooth cheek—not a trace of stubble anywhere. So much for getting to rub his face against that darkened mess peppering Castiel’s sharp jaw, this is definitely a chick. 

The kiss isn’t terrible, it’s just neither what he expected nor what he was hoping for. The stale flavor of tacky lipstick sticks to his tastebuds as the girl pressing her mouth to his sweeps her tongue across the roof of his mouth. Dean’s polite about it, even tries to enjoy it, but he’s glad when it doesn’t last more than a handful of seconds. A delicate hand touches his cheek and then is gone, and ten seconds later Dean’s told he can unmask and make a guess.

Scanning the crowd, Dean pretends to think carefully, furrowing his brow and making a show of playing “Eeny Meeny, Miny, Mo.” He taps his lips with one finger. The answer is obviously Lisa. “Cas,” he says out loud, rubbing fingers over where Cas’ five o’clock shadow is, just to be a dick, and everyone howls with laughter. Even Lisa, which, points to her—Dean loves a chick with a good sense of humor. “Just kidding,” he says sheepishly. “Lis?” Lisa grins widely and winks, but Dean is far more interested in the way Cas’ smile drops off of his face in an instant. 

After sitting back down, Dean has to watch Charlie and Dorothy exchange two grope-sessions in a row, not even remotely pretending to want to touch anyone else. They sit back on the bench next to him hand-in-hand, and then Victor makes out with Matt, probably having something to do with the producer in his ear again.

Up last is Cas, and Dean is fuckin’ _ready._ Ain’t nobody about to beat him to this opportunity—he’s not above fighting, if he has to. More than one person moves to stand as Cas snaps the blindfold into place, but Dean is out of his seat like a shot, charging into Cas’ personal space and grabbing him around the back of the neck like he’s goddamn sure of his welcome. 

Their lips crash together, and Cas is kissing back just as soon as Dean’s mouth is on his—no hesitation, no fear. He gets his hands on Dean’s waist and Dean threads his free one into Cas’ hair, destroying all space between them. In his arms, Cas is warm, solid, his hair soft between Dean’s fingers and his mouth talented but sweet.

 _Jesus,_ Dean can’t get enough. It’s beyond the fact that Cas is an incredible kisser (he is)—there’s a spark every time their lips meet, an electricity buzzing between them that Dean can’t help but chase. He feels _good_ in Cas’ arms, feels like he could never tire of this.

All too soon, they’re separating, breathing hard against each other’s faces as their castmates squeal and clap. 

“I fold,” he hears Lisa say, from somewhere to his left. “Holy shit.” 

Letting his fingers linger in Cas’ as he pulls away, Dean returns to his seat and tries to look casual and _not_ ravaged. _Fuck,_ he _feels_ ravaged, and all they did was kiss. _Once._

If that wasn’t all crazy enough, Cas pulls the blindfold off, opens his eyes, and trains them directly on Dean. “Dean,” he says confidently, clearly, with zero trace of ambiguity or uncertainty. He doesn’t flinch or blink, doesn’t look away, just tosses the mask over his shoulder and beelines over. As soon as he’s in reach, Cas bends down, takes Dean’s hand, and yanks him up without pretense, off of the bench. Without a word, he takes off across the sand, dragging Dean behind. As they power-walk up the path and around the pool area towards the bedroom, the sound of catcalls and laughter follows. 

Dean’s heart is beating nearly out of his chest. Like an absolute _girl,_ he wonders if this will be all he’ll get with Cas—if they’ll have sex and then he’ll be out of Cas’ system. That idea sits terribly in Dean’s stomach, like a spoiled meal. He pushes forward anyway, because he _wants_ Cas. More than he’s wanted anyone in a very long time—maybe ever. As ridiculous as that thought is, Dean clings to it, because it’s _something—_ something new _._

It’s that space in the middle of his chest, the one that’s been empty for so long, suddenly tingling back to life. It’s _hope,_ possibility, maybe. It’s a glimpse of all the things Dean wanted and thought he could have, once upon a time. _Feelings_ he long-since buried and convinced himself were only for children, for dreamers, for _other_ people who aren’t Dean—all of that, somehow breaking through. 

And how Cas could do that to him, how he could crack that ice, that brick wall Dean’s built around his heart with a mere couple of looks and _one_ (really spectacular) kiss, Dean’s got no idea. But here they are. And maybe none of this is real, maybe it’s all some elaborate fairytale Dean’s concocted in his head combined with the romantic, seductive atmosphere of the resort. _Whatever._ Dean doesn’t even care, he’s just not ready to let go of any of it just yet.

“This room is so stupid,” Dean mutters, as Castiel shoves open the heavy door. It doesn’t swing wide normally, instead, it pivots in the middle on a hinge, smacking them both in the face with a huge blast of cold air. “Doesn’t know if it wants to be a hotel suite or fuckin’ summer camp.” 

“Admittedly, the lack of privacy for sleeping and sex is… an interesting choice,” Castiel remarks, still holding onto Dean’s hand as he leads him through the room to the last bed on the right. “Considering the premise of this whole thing.” 

“Right,” Dean agrees. “I mean, no offense, but not all of us are into the orgy thing.” 

Castiel’s grin widens on his face as he turns, sinking down onto the bed he’s claimed for himself and releasing Dean’s hand. “None taken. Normally I would tell you that you shouldn’t knock what you haven’t tried, but I have to say, I’m feeling much more monogamous than usual.” He pulls his bottom lip in between his teeth and Dean is stuck awkwardly willing his ears not to turn the hot shade of red he can feel creeping over them. 

_Weird choice of words,_ he thinks. _Monogamous._ Dean has to force himself not to dwell—it probably doesn’t mean anything. Hell, this is the second time since they’ve met just a few short hours ago that Cas has mentioned his love of orgies, and Dean _really_ needs to stop reading into things. They’re here to hook-up, and Dean can do that. In fact, it’s the best weapon he’s got at his disposal to make Castiel want more.

“Come here,” Castiel says, holding out his hand again, and Dean goes willingly, folding himself into Castiel’s lap and sinking into his body. Something about the way they fit together—it’s pretty damn perfect, and Dean’s been with a _lot_ of bodies in his life. 

Cas’ is his damn ideal—strong enough to toss Dean around if he’s in the mood, but soft in all the right ways. Thighs that can squeeze around Dean’s hips or head, slopes and planes that beg to be licked, hair that’s soft and the perfect length to fuck up between his fingers. 

Yeah, Cas is fuckin’ _hot._

This kiss is fire too, same as before—Cas is licking enthusiastically into Dean’s mouth while sliding a hand underneath his shirt and up his back. His hands are _big_ and his palm is warm on Dean’s skin. In his lap, Dean scrapes his nails over Cas’ scalp, rocks his pelvis against Cas’ belly, urges him to lay back on the bed and to take Dean down with him. 

On all fours and hovering over an increasingly disheveled Castiel, Dean brackets Cas’ head with his forearms and grinds their groins together. _Fuck, yeah,_ Cas is hard beneath him, and already making noises like he really digs what Dean is doing, which is not very much. Just dragging his mouth over the bolt of the guy’s jaw, sucking kisses into his neck, and running fingers up and down his side. Real starter-kit stuff. For a guy who’s supposedly into group sex, Cas seems kind of easy to impress, the way he’s tugging Dean closer and curling into him. 

Just as they’re really finding a rhythm, there’s an odd sound—like a chime—that goes off from a couple of feet away, somewhere near the middle of the room. 

“Huh?” Dean mutters as he breaks away from Castiel’s mouth, startled. Blinking, his eyes adjust and alight on a foot-tall, cone-shaped piece of white plastic that Dean previously assumed was an air-freshener. 

“Did we make that happen?” Castiel questions, up on his elbows now and squinting at the cone with suspicion. Rightfully so, probably, because the thing is now glowing with purple light. “Why is it doing that? Is it an alarm?”

“How the fuck should I know?” Dean retorts, scrambling off of Castiel to lean closer and get a better look. The cone chimes again, sending him tipping backward and into Castiel’s side. It doesn’t escape Dean’s notice that Cas’ hands continue touching him, even if it’s just a stroke down his back, a comforting palm on his thigh. 

“Hello,” the cone says, and Dean yelps, despite the fact that its voice is a very non-threatening female AI with a British accent. _Uh-oh._ Dean senses a twist coming. “I’m Lana,” the cone continues. 

“Hello, Lana,” Castiel says, like it’s perfectly normal to converse with a sentient air freshener.

“Welcome to your first night at the Retreat. I hope the accommodations are to your liking,” Lana says.

“Perfect,” Dean replies with a snort, since, when in Rome. “Think we could get our own room?” 

Whether Lana doesn’t hear or doesn’t care, she ignores Dean’s question. “I must say, you are all aesthetically pleasing to the artificial eye.”

“You too, Lana,” Castiel says, approvingly.

“You look great,” Dean agrees, holding up an ‘OK’ sign. “Love your cone. The purple lighting is really flattering.” 

“I must ask you to make your way to the sitting area off of the pool,” Lana instructs. 

“I don’t want to,” Dean complains as Castiel moves to stand, tugging him back down into several more kisses that turn progressively more involved until Lana chimes irritably at them again.

“Hurry up lovebirds,” she says. “I haven’t got all night.”

“What the fuck,” Dean moans as Castiel laughs and tugs him to his feet, leading him back out to the pool the way they came. “That was so weird.” 

Out on the patio, the rest of the cast has already gathered, and all of them look as confused and anxious as Dean feels. Charlie finds him immediately, looking excitedly between Dean and Cas while raising her eyebrows.

“Good times?” she asks.

“Not as of yet,” Dean grumbles, gesturing to another Lana-cone he sees glowing placidly on the small table set in between two of the loveseats. The furniture is arranged in a semi-circle under the portico next to the pool, and everyone slowly makes their way there while the cameras follow. “C-3PO the next generation has cockblock programming, apparently.” 

Beside him, Castiel keeps hold of Dean’s hand, squeezing reassuringly before using it to tug Dean down, almost into his lap, on the thick cushioned seat. Not that Dean minds. The other cast members take their seats as well, looking around and pointing out the places they’ve noticed other “Lana”s hiding in plain sight. 

They’re everywhere. That can’t be a good sign. 

Despite the interruption, though, Cas is clearly still into him, leaning over to kiss Dean softly and grace him with a smile while they wait. 

Lana chimes. “Hello. I’m your virtual guide,” she says.

“Hey Siri, what’s good?” Victor calls out, and everyone laughs. Alicia laughs a little too hard.

“Actually, my name is Lana. Welcome. However, you are not here for the reasons you may think. Over the last twelve hours, I have been observing you and learning about your behavior. It has been most insightful.” 

“Alright, that’s kind of fucked up,” Matt comments, wrinkling his nose and showing the most personality Dean’s seen from him yet. He nods his own agreement. 

“You have been specially selected because all of you are having meaningless flings over genuine relationships.”

“Oh my God,” Lisa says.

“The purpose of this retreat is to help you gain deeper, more meaningful connections in your personal relationships.” 

“You mean like… platonic relationships? With women?” Victor scoffs.

“And men,” Castiel adds airily, seemingly unfazed.

“Touché,” Victor agrees, pointing a finger in Cas’ direction. Dean squashes his jealousy—after all, Cas’ hand is still in his.

At this point, Rachel the producer calls out from where she’s crouching next to one of the cameramen. “Look surprised and excited about what she says next or we’ll have to do it over!” 

_Great,_ Dean thinks, as “Lana” reveals the prize pot of one hundred thousand dollars, something they all already knew about going in. The rest of the cast screams and squeals, cheers and high-fives anyway, and Dean does his best to at least plaster a look of shock on his mug. 

“Okay, but what do we actually have to do to win the money?” That question comes from Dorothy, and Dean sits up a little straighter, paying attention. No one’s touched on that in their pre-filming interviews, as far as he knows. 

“There are conditions to your stay here,” Lana continues, as dramatically as an AI can get. “You must abstain from any sexual practices for the entirety of your stay.”

 _Whomp, there it is._ Dean can practically feel the mounting excitement and energy drain immediately from the air around them. He should have fucking known— _of course_ this was too good to be true. Next to him, Castiel takes his hand back and sits forward, elbows on his knees and hands on his face. Charlie hollers in frustration.

“That means no kissing, no heavy petting, nor sex of any kind. This will also apply to self-gratification,” Lana says.

“Fuck,” Dean murmurs quietly. “Should have rubbed one out yesterday.”

But Lana isn’t done. “Money will be deducted from the prize for any sexual activity that occurs.” That gets an even more bummed reaction from the group, with assorted groaning and facepalming all around. 

“Welcome to the Retreat,” Lana says calmly, and then her purple glow flares and disappears.

“Jesus, fuck,” Dean declares before sinking back into the couch cushions with an arm over his face. “Well, there’s the twist.”

***

Before they’re allowed to go to bed, the producers force each cast member to film their individual reactions to Lana’s news one-on-one. Dean proudly announces to the camera lens that he’s a rule-breaker and has zero intention of behaving. He also declares that he’s lived his whole life without money and that he’s not going to start chasing it over his own wants and needs now. “Besides,” he says. “Cas is once-in-a-lifetime sexy. Can’t buy that kind of experience, not even with a hundred k. I’d be an absolute idiot to pass that up.” 

On his way out of the fabric-draped booth that production has created as a sort of confessional, Dean runs into the man himself. The way Cas acts when he lays eyes on him only affirms Dean’s words to their invisible audience. Cas touches his cheek, winks, and lets his torso rub against Dean’s as he slips inside. 

_Oh, yeah. Rules, what rules?_

There’s some confusion in the shared bedroom when Dean enters, with cast members yelling across the divide between beds about what exactly the rules are and where the boundaries lie. Victor is standing on the corner of his bed, scowling and berating anyone who even passively suggests it _might_ be worth it to break some. 

“I’m here to win,” he declares, punching a fist into his opposite palm. “Anyone who messes with my money ain’t gonna like what happens to them.” Below him, Alicia rolls her eyes before flopping down on her bed. “You hear me, Winchester? I see the way you’re lookin’ like you wanna unhinge your jaw and swallow Cas whole. I’m watchin’ you, boy.” 

Dean makes a face. “You don’t know me, man. I can keep my legs closed for a hundred k, easy. I’m slutty, not stupid. Anyway, those two look like the real risk, if you ask me,” he says, tipping his chin towards where Charlie and Dorothy are laying together on Charlie’s bed. The redhead grins back like the cat who stole the cream and Dean suppresses a smile while Victor narrows his eyes, glaring suspiciously at all of them.

After the cameras have presumably recorded their fill of the reactionary chaos, Rachel comes in, climbs up on a chair, and gives them a much drier run-down of the rules and limits. “This _is_ the twist,” she confirms, as if anyone was still wondering. 

“No kissing, heavy petting, intimate touching, no masturbating or sex of any kind—assume that if there are genitals involved in any way, it’s off limits. However,” she says, with a very dramatic pause. “ _Intimacy_ is not banned. Hand-holding, cuddling, snuggling, hugging—consider all of those things in the good-touch club. You may sleep in the same bed, you can even shower together—at your own risk, of course. If you cross a line, even accidentally, there are no second chances. Various rule breaches come with different monetary deductions, which you will only discover the value of should they occur. Any questions?” 

There are _so_ many questions, but not from Dean. Exhausted, he kicks off his shoes, strips down to his boxers and leaves his clothes on the ground before crawling into bed. Once his head hits the pillow, though, his brain refuses to turn off and the contents—well, let’s just say Dean wasn’t entirely honest in the confessional earlier. 

Truthfully, he’s somewhat alarmed at the relief he felt in hearing Lana’s words. _Specially selected,_ she’d said, because they _all fucking suck_ at relationships, apparently. And this place… wants to _help_ with that? Dean should be pissed. He should be annoyed and frustrated and in pain from his mounting ( _lack of mounting_ ) blue balls, but when he tries to summon those feelings, all he can see behind his closed lids are Cas’ beautiful blue eyes.

He barely dares to hope, but he also can’t lie to himself, either. 

Dean is relieved.

He still _wants_ Cas, of course he does. Hell, if Cas tried to bend him over right now, with everything at stake and all of their castmates watching, Dean would do it, no questions asked. Fuck rules, and _Lana,_ and the money. If there was any truth to his on-camera interview, it revolved around his feelings on that. Sure, claiming a piece of the prize pot would have been nice, and Dean will be returning home to a whole other set of issues if he doesn’t, but nothing that didn’t exist before he signed on for this shit-show.

Plus, they’re all still getting per diem payments just for being here, so either way, Dean won’t be leaving completely empty-handed. 

And then there’s _Cas._

Logically, Dean knows it’s borderline insanity to think about _Cas_ as something he could potentially “leave here with.” _Logically,_ being the key word. Beyond the fact that Cas isn’t a _thing_ at all— _and_ that Dean’s just tonight done a total one-eighty on his entire romantic philosophy based on the advice of a glorified computer—they’ve only known each other for less than a day. What are the chances that whatever instant connection the two of them might have felt even survives the night, never mind the return to the real world? 

All Dean knows for sure is that Cas wanted to sleep with him, and now that’s supposed to be off the table. In no way, shape, or form does he have _any_ idea what comes next. 

When the lights in the room dim, Dean’s still lost in his head. Tired and picking discordantly over the various emotions pulling him in opposite directions, he barely notices when the mattress next to him dips. Dean’s hands are tucked behind his head, eyes trained on the now-extinguished lights in the ceiling, so he starts a little when he looks over and sees Cas staring back.

Even in the near-dark, with shadows distorting the curves of his face, Cas is attractive. The sharp cut of his jaw, the smooth line of his neck, the brightness in his eyes when the light from the cracked bathroom door catches them—and Dean _wants._ His gaze is unwittingly drawn to the bruising just over Cas’ pulse point, marks left from his own mouth making Dean instantly flash back to the taste of Cas’ salty skin on his tongue. The way Cas’ toned body felt pressed against his, how he arched up against Dean, and— _dammit._ They should have moved faster. At _least_ gotten each other’s clothes off before they were Lana-blocked. 

Although, _now—_ Dean tips his head in consideration. Cas is stripped down to his underwear, just like Dean. Except, Cas is wearing orange bikini-style briefs with a design that looks semi-obscene decorating the front. Dean squints and looks closer; it’s the ass-end of a bee, complete with giant stinger. He startles again when Castiel laughs, not realizing that he’d leaned in somewhat intrusively towards Castiel’s barely-clothed groin without so much as an invitation. 

Though arguably, Cas showing up mostly-naked in his bed is exactly that.

“Careful,” Castiel rumbles quietly, like he’s afraid he’s going to disturb their softly-chatting bunkmates, but he’s clearly amused. “Any closer and you might cost us money.” 

“Might be worth it,” Dean challenges, without really thinking about what he’s saying. He relaxes back into his pillow again and quirks an eyebrow that he hopes Castiel can see in the low light. He probably can, since Dean can easily discern the cluster of bees flying upward out of Castiel’s waistband and over his right flank, towards a ridiculously pretty grouping of purple-blue flowers on his lower ribs. 

_What a weirdo,_ Dean thinks affectionately.

“The front of the bee is on my ass,” Castiel says bluntly, and Dean just blinks back at him, confused. “The bee,” he repeats, gesturing to his underwear and then turning around and sticking his backside out in Dean’s direction. Sure enough, a smiling cartoon bee grins gleefully from the stretched cotton, and Dean’s never been so jealous of something that doesn’t actually exist before. 

Apparently, those loose linen pants did a great job of hiding what Cas is packing, and Dean has to work not to drool over (or dive forward and sink his teeth into) those curves. 

“So,” Castiel continues, as he sits back down and rests a hand casually on Dean’s blanket-covered thigh like he’s not temptation personified. “Would you be at all opposed to me sharing your bed?” 

“Uh—” Dean starts, glancing around to see if anyone is else is watching, but his fellow castmates all seem to be bunked down for the night, involved in their own conversations. Some of which are occurring underneath blankets, and Dean feels mightily suspicious about all that. How the hell will Lana even know if the rules are broken?! From where he’s sitting, there’s not a single person resting in their own bed, and in a group of self-confessed sex lovers, it’s hard to imagine no one’s urges will lead to something more.

Still, sure as hell looks like sleeping in the same bed is fully on the “green means go” activities menu here at the Retreat, so who is Dean to pass that up? He scoots over and shoots Castiel a sunny smile. “Guess not, since everybody else is doing it. And by that I mean, get the fuck in here, sunshine.” 

Castiel slides under the covers and tugs at Dean’s hip until he rolls onto his side. That leaves them facing each other, heads on the same pillow. Beneath the sheets, their legs are tangled, but they’re not exactly cuddling. Cas’ hand slides over Dean’s bare skin; down his side, over his thigh, up his arm, and Dean has no clue whether he’s teasing or just touching. His breath stutters a little, eyes closing involuntarily as Castiel’s hand drifts over his cheek and down his neck—maybe Dean hasn’t paid enough attention to how starved he is for this kind of contact.

 _It’s true_ , he realizes, that physical affection outside of sex isn’t something he gets. And how often do one-night-stands and hookups bother to be gentle, or to _touch_ beyond the goal of getting off at all? Despite all his posturing, Dean’s always been the kind of guy who _wants_ to cuddle, but won’t ever ask for it. Now that it’s their only option, though, somehow, that feels safer.

“Weird night,” he says softly, into the space between his and Castiel’s faces, just to deflect from the tension and the rising emotions inside of his own head.

“Hmm,” Castiel replies, glancing up to Dean’s eyes and then back down at his own hand, tracing patterns over Dean’s chest. He has no idea how Dean’s heart is clenching inside of it at the very thought that Castiel might not even stick around, now that the rules have changed. 

“What, this a dealbreaker for you? Listen man, I get it,” Dean preempts, trying to sound like he’s commiserating and not pouting. “You came here to party and hook up. No hard feelings if you’re just looking for a warm body tonight and wanna bail tomorrow. God knows I got no room to talk.” 

The surprise on Castiel’s face isn’t something Dean was expecting, but it makes him hopeful. Cas keeps his eyes trained on where his fingers travel, but his voice is not nearly as steady as it has been. “I fear that I would be exposing myself in a very transparent way if I were to admit that I’m not disappointed that we are being discouraged from sharing sexual intimacy.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” Cas affirms with a nod and a small smile. 

“I mean, I live to break the rules, Cas, you should know that about me.” 

Castiel’s smile widens, and Dean warms. “I’m not opposed,” he says carefully, his tone curiously measured. “If that is all you want.”

“All I—whoa, hey, we were talking about you, here. Not me. I’m just saying, I kinda thought you’d be on the first boat out of here tomorrow.”

Still focused on Dean’s chest and the quickly-fading trails his fingernails leave behind there, Castiel shrugs (and Dean is not distracted by how adorable it is, because men in their thirties don’t find other men in their thirties “adorable”). “I never said that. I haven’t decided what I’m going to do.” He lifts his eyes and pins Dean in place. “Have you?” 

They’re just a breath apart, and Dean can’t remember when Cas scooted closer, but his stomach is pressed against Dean’s now and his hand has relocated to Dean’s back. It’s intimate and arousing, and Dean can’t _believe_ they can’t even fucking kiss. This _sucks._ “Haven’t decided,” he echos, since his upstairs brain is no longer receiving the lion’s share of oxygenated blood at the moment. 

“Perhaps,” Castiel says, his words ghosting over Dean’s lips and his palm spread firmly across Dean’s lower back, holding him close. “We should sleep on it.”

“Yeah,” Dean replies dizzily. Cas smells like cinnamon, just a hint, like he chewed a piece of gum or used some kind of scented body wash to clean up before coming to bed. _Maybe his toothpaste is cinnamon,_ Dean wonders, wishing he could find out the _good_ way, without having to ask.

“Wouldn’t want to do anything reckless.” 

“Reckless?” Dean parrots, his eyes starting to become heavy without his consent. It really is _nice_ to just lay in someone’s arms like this. _Safe. Comforting._

“Mmhmm,” Castiel hums, clearly feeling the same pull to sleep as Dean. “But if you don't like, uh, ‘reckless’, I can use ‘insouciant’, maybe.”

“You’re weird, Cas,” Dean mumbles, wrapping his arms more tightly around the other man’s body and snuggling down so that his face is nearly in Cas’ hair. _Watermelon,_ he notices. “You’re a weird, nerdy dude who likes orgies. But I dig it. You’re tough for a hippie, or whatever.” 

“Not a hippie,” Castiel near-slurs, more or less into Dean’s collarbone. “Don’t label me.”

“Kay.” Dean stifles a yawn. “Well, whatever you are, I‘m glad you’re here.” 

It’s quiet for a moment, save for the low murmurs of the other paired-off folks in the room. Dean is _just_ about asleep when Castiel speaks up again. “Why do I feel like I know you, Dean? I don’t know the first thing about you. And yet—”

Beside him in the bed, Dean goes stock-still, but there’s only honest curiosity in Castiel’s voice, nothing else, save for maybe confusion. So after a second, Dean relaxes and pulls his fingers through Cas’ hair, down to the nape of his neck. “It’s not just you,” he admits. “Kinda thought I was losing it a little, honestly. I mean, maybe this is just what happens when you really wanna fuck someone and you know they want you too, but you don’t act on it? Not like I would know, I don’t do self-denial. When I want a drink, I drink. When I want sex, I go get it. The same goes for a sandwich or a fight.” 

Castiel hums and breathes against Dean’s skin, and Dean fights the urge to roll him over and test whether his theory holds water, once and for all. “So you’re saying you’re just well-adjusted?” 

Dean snorts. “God no. I’m just well-fed.” 

Even without being able to see his face, Cas’ smile is impossible to miss. Dean can hear it in his voice, feel it against his skin. “In that case, perhaps we should explore Lana’s proposition after all. Find out if there is any part of you that isn’t, uh, full.”

“Only if we can ditch this metaphor,” Dean replies, and Castiel just laughs. 

***


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s been a long time since Dean’s slept with another person by his side, never mind someone he _wanted_ to be there. It’s foreign enough that Cas’ touch, his _presence_ wakes Dean frequently during the night. Not that he minds—while it doesn’t do anything for his sleep, as corny as it sounds, it soothes him down to his soul. It’s enough to know that Cas didn’t run the second casual sex was taken off the table, and that out of everyone here, he _chose_ Dean to cuddle up with. 
> 
> That he feels the strange pull between them, too. 

It’s been a long time since Dean’s slept with another person by his side, never mind someone he _wanted_ to be there. It’s foreign enough that Cas’ touch, his _presence_ wakes Dean frequently during the night. Not that he minds—while it doesn’t do anything for his sleep, as corny as it sounds, it soothes him down to his soul. It’s enough to know that Cas didn’t run the second casual sex was taken off the table, and that out of everyone here, he _chose_ Dean to cuddle up with. 

That he feels the strange pull between them, too. 

The room is quiet and cool, the mattress is plush and comfortable, and none of Dean’s castmates snore like an oncoming freight train. All that considered, he _should_ be able to drop right back off into dreamland each time he’s awoken. Despite the relaxing atmosphere, though, that’s not Dean’s experience. 

Every time Cas’ hand grazes his thigh, his ass presses against Dean’s crotch, or his arm slings around Dean’s stomach (neither of them is a subtle sleeper), Dean finds himself staring at the ceiling on a thirty to forty-minute reset. 

While Cas snoozes obliviously on, Dean stares across the space between them, or at the back of Cas’ head, or down at the tanned hand on his stomach. Cas’ dark eyelashes flutter against his cheeks in his sleep and Dean wonders what he’s dreaming about. The whole thing is strange and discomfiting and wonderful, all at the same time. Enough that he _almost_ doesn’t even regret the sex-ban at all, having so severely underestimated how much he needed contact like _this_ so much more.

Despite all of the interruptions, Dean wakes for the last time feeling weirdly refreshed when the clock at his bedside reads 06:30 in bright red numbers. Unsurprisingly, everyone else is still passed out, most having stayed up until just a few hours prior talking and laughing (and drinking—if there’s one thing that flows freely here at the Retreat, it’s alcohol). Cas is still unconscious too, so Dean slips out from under his arm carefully, trying not to disturb him. 

He grabs his dirty clothes off of the floor and shuffles across the dark room, rubbing his eyes and yawning. On the far side, there’s a walkway to the giant bathroom where he and Cas flirted the day before. Adjacent to the bathroom is a dressing area with wall-to-wall armoires and vanities in the center where anyone can sit and do their makeup or whatever. 

Making his way to the armoire that contains his own belongings, Dean opens it, sticks his worn crap in the bin at the bottom, and grabs fresh clothing and his toiletry bag. He doesn’t bother to turn on any lights until he’s inside the bathroom, and only then because the sunrise rays coming through the window are still pretty dim. Forgoing the shower (because damn it, Dean is _going_ to get in that ocean today), he washes his face, brushes his teeth, and slips on a plain tee (no logos—production rules) and his swim trunks.

As an afterthought, Dean styles his hair, eyeing the camera in the upper right corner of the room warily. If he’s going to be on TV making a fool of himself and getting in touch with his emotions instead of getting laid, he’s damn well _also_ going to look good doing it. By the time he puts his shit away and quietly escapes out the door of the bedroom to the courtyard, the sun is a bit higher in the sky, setting it alight with a soft, pink glow. 

Dean heads directly for the beach, ignoring the camera guy who jumps out of his chair and shoulders his equipment to follow. Somewhere around when Dean makes his way past the pool, he wishes he’d stopped in the kitchen for coffee. But when he glances over his shoulder, he realizes that if he turns around now he’ll literally run smack into the camera guy and the producer lurking behind him. After not so much deliberation, he sighs and keeps walking. Coffee will have to wait. 

The sand is cool under Dean’s bare feet, and he wades into the water—just up to his calves—before stepping back from where the waves thin to nothing and settling down on the ground. He shifts his ass against the grains until he’s comfortable and rests his elbows on his knees, staring out over the slowly brightening horizon thoughtfully. 

Regardless of the conversation he and Cas had last night, Dean still isn’t one hundred percent certain of what he’s going to do. He’d be lying if he said part of his brain wasn’t screaming at him to head for the hills. Opening himself up to another person in any meaningful way is scary enough, but doing it on camera while the whole world waits on the other side of the screen, chomping at the bit to judge and laugh? 

_Whole-ass yikes._

Dean is pretty sure he’d rather eat Sam’s rabbit food every day for the rest of his life than subject himself to that potential global humiliation and heartbreak. Hell, he doesn’t _know_ Castiel, not really. The guy could be a fame whore, could be using Dean—out to do whatever it takes to grab fifteen minutes in the spotlight. 

Sighing and digging his toes into the sand, Dean drops his head between his shoulders. A warm breeze drifts across his skin and hints at the inevitably scorching day ahead. Dean picks at his fingers. _Anything is possible,_ he supposes, but that doesn’t mean it’s _likely._ Cas just…doesn’t read like a manipulative or opportunistic kind of guy. 

Maybe he doesn’t have a reason to, but Dean actually believes Castiel when he says he came here for the orgy potential, and that it’s not any deeper than that. That he just likes that kind of stuff and has no qualms about being filmed doing it. There’s really nothing Dean’s seen in their short time together that suggests Cas is anything less than authentic all of the time, but what does he know? 

And what if he’s wrong?

That thought is worrying, and preoccupying. With Dean’s mind a mess and the distraction of gentle waves rolling in and out over the sand in front of him, leaving foam in their wake to fizzle and pop, Dean doesn’t take notice to anyone approaching. Not, at least, until that someone is hovering directly over his head and clearing their throat conspicuously, anyway. 

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says, when Dean doesn’t really acknowledge his presence in a meaningful way. “May I sit?” 

“Hey, Cas,” Dean murmurs, patting the sand next to him. His new friend ( _or whatever_ ) slides to the ground gracefully, sinking into a sort-of cross-legged position that has his ankles overlapping near his thighs. He does it without the use of his hands, since he’s holding a coffee in each. Dean has to admit, that’s _crazy_ impressive and weirdly hot, especially because Cas is basically naked; stupid bee undies notwithstanding. 

All the same, it doesn’t look very comfortable, an opinion of Dean’s which must show on his face because Castiel smiles widely as he hands over one of the mugs. “This pose opens up the hips,” he explains, punctuating his comment with a wink. “Something you might have appreciated had we not been interrupted last night.” 

Dean groans. “Flag on the play; unfair teasing before coffee. Though you did bring me some, so I won’t red-card you.”

“I don’t understand that reference,” Castiel says placidly, sipping from his own mug and staring at Dean openly. _This_ is why Dean feels like the guy is believably honest—you can’t fake that kind of unflinching eye contact, that lack of fear of being _seen._ On anyone else it might be creepy. On Cas, Dean never wants him to look away. “Sports, I’m assuming. The sort of physical activity I prefer is the kind that takes place in the bedroom.” 

“We’re on the same page there,” Dean agrees, before lifting the mug to his mouth and taking a long, gratifying sip. Steaming hot and black with a hint of real sugar, just the way Dean likes it, which has to be an outrageously lucky guess. 

“The producers apparently have a list of each of our food and drink preferences,” Castiel offers, answering the question Dean didn’t yet ask. “In theory, it’s for them and to keep the kitchen stocked, however, as soon as Rachel saw me preparing two coffees, she was very swift to volunteer your information.” 

Dean snorts into his cup. “Yeah?” he asks, wiping a hand across his mouth and clocking the way Castiel watches him do it.

“I’m fairly certain I was not supposed to tell you that.”

“I mean, coffee is great, but if that chick’s plan was to get me to break rules or fall in love with you, bacon would have been the superior choice. Heaping pile of bacon, extra crispy.” Dean nods at Castiel, doing his best to look incredibly sincere. “Great, now I’m hungry.”

“Note taken,” Castiel says with amusement. “Though, I’m not sure I can decide which of those outcomes I should be hoping for.” 

A strangled noise makes its way unbidden from Dean’s mouth, and he buries his face in the coffee mug once again, embarrassed. What he _doesn’t_ expect is for Castiel’s fingers to cover the top of the cup, pushing it down as he scoots closer. “Dean,” he says, eyes wide and genuine. “I wasn’t trying to make you uncomfortable. I apologize. I understand if you aren’t interested in… pursuing this, any of it. The rules of the Retreat, my company—please believe me, there’s no pressure here.” 

“No, Cas, I—I think I know that,” Dean replies with a sigh, allowing Castiel to direct his mug into the sand, using it as a makeshift cupholder. He _should_ leave the discussion at that, but on a whim, when Cas goes to pull his hand back, Dean grabs it and holds on. “This okay?” he asks, lifting his eyes in time to see surprise and delight dawn over Cas’ face. 

_Damn, but he is handsome._ The morning light makes Cas look softer, makes his incredible blue eyes sparkle and his dark hair shine. The ocean’s got nothing on that sight, and the way Cas drags his bottom lip through his teeth, Dean’s slowly realizing that he’s very, _very_ fucked, sex ban or no. 

“More than,” Castiel replies, tightening his own grip. His hands are soft, too, not calloused and rough from working with them, like Dean’s. 

Dean takes a deep breath and lets it out, nodding resolutely even though it’s himself he needs to convince to use his words. “So, here’s the thing, Cas,” he starts, and like always, Castiel’s staring back with focused attention, like Dean is the only person on the planet. Strangely, that gives Dean the confidence he’s been looking for, and he spits out his thoughts before he can lose his nerve. 

“It’s not like I’m a sex addict or something. I just prefer hooking up, you know? It’s how I’ve always been, how I had to be for a long time. Responsibilities and all that. Shit that was bigger than just me. I only even came here because for the first time in my life, I don’t _have_ all that to worry about anymore.”

Dean glances up from where he’s been staring down at his swim shorts, worrying the hem between the thumb and index finger of his free hand. Yep, Cas is still staring, but he smiles encouragingly, so Dean continues.

“Past me—you know, the one who wasn’t in on the Lana-catch—would say this is still a win-win situation. Play by the rules and walk away with some cash, break the rules and get some… Well, you probably get where I’m going with that. At the very least, if all else fails, maybe I make a new friend. Maybe it’s that simple.”

Startling him, Castiel laughs loudly and Dean raises his eyebrows, unsure if he should be offended. “What?” Cas says, still chuckling. “I like past you. However, since we are sharing, I think you should know that it’s almost certainly not that simple for me. I recognize that you used that word flippantly, but it’s possible that I’m a bit more of an addict than you are. It’s been a very long time since I’ve been put in a position where I had to really consider whether that is the case, and I’m not entirely sure I don’t resent it.”

“Oh, shit, Cas—I’m such a dick. I wasn’t trying to be flip. Or like, trivialize your—”

Castiel waves his free hand dismissively while simultaneously squeezing the one still twisted in Dean’s. He appears virtually unbothered as he lifts his head to look out over the water. Relieved, Dean clamps his mouth shut before he can say something stupider.

After a moment of listening to the waves, Castiel keeps talking. “I only said that so you’d understand what you’re getting into, asking to be my ‘friend,’ and in trying to get to know me. It’s very possible you won’t like what you find.” 

For the first time, Dean can see Castiel waver, can see a hint of insecurity and uncertainty simmering just below his easygoing, “nothing bothers me” exterior. Honestly, it only drives the fishing hook Dean’s bitten into his cheek more firmly home, makes him _that_ much surer that Cas is the real deal. That he’s worth stepping out on a limb for.

“I like what I see so far,” Dean offers, hopeful. “And hell, if we try and fail, then we’re both in hot water together. I don’t wanna be unclear—Cas, part of me wants to follow the rules. But I also want to fuck you. Like, six ways ‘til Sunday and every way I know how to do it. Maybe figure out some new ways. How I figure it, worst comes to worst, we walk off this beach broke and with a bunch of really angry co-stars gunning for our heads. So if you want to have sex, Cas, I’m up for it. I just don’t want to fuck up whatever self-rehab you have going for you.” 

Throwing his head back, Castiel laughs loudly, a ridiculously contagious sound that makes Dean want to coax out another, and another. Dean can’t help but chuckle around a breath before clearing his throat and speaking again. “When I say I wanna break the rules with you, kiss you, do whatever else you wanna do—you know, I’m just talking, Cas. Like you said, there’s no pressure.”

When Castiel gets his giggles under control, he leans in and touches Dean’s face. “From where I’m sitting, it seems very obvious that you’re worth the risk.” 

They’re so damn close, and Dean wasn’t lying when he said he _wants_ Cas, wants him badly. He feels his body stirring to life, feels his lips almost tingling with the desire to press against Cas’ again. It’s worse than not knowing, because they _did_ get to make out and Dean _knows_ how good Cas feels. Knows what a freaking awesome kisser he is, knows how the spark that’s between them goes haywire and turns into full-blown fireworks when they touch. 

“Fuck,” he says softly, _almost_ able to feel the way Cas’ breath hitches in his chest, less than an arm’s length away. “How expensive could a kiss be?” 

“Almost certainly not enough to deter me,” Castiel replies, nearly against Dean’s lips. “You?” 

“Never been much for money,” Dean manages, before closing the space between them, nearly falling into Castiel as he captures his plush mouth. Maybe it’s because it’s forbidden, or maybe it has something to do with their little share and care session, but this kiss is even better than their make-out moment the night before. And Dean is stone-cold sober; he knows this indiscretion is unlikely to lead to more and _still,_ he’d stick it firmly in his top ten kisses ever.

They get their damn money’s worth out of it. Cas is gentle but demanding, licking into Dean’s mouth and coaxing him to respond in kind. He caresses Dean’s face, undulating his body against Dean’s chest. Before Dean even realizes what’s happening, Cas has him on his back in the sand. 

But it’s Cas that pulls away, too. He kisses Dean softly a few times and then draws back, dragging his thumb reluctantly over Dean’s lip as he goes. “Just so you know, this is essentially unprecedented,” Castiel says, like Dean’s not hard in his pants and ready to go wherever the fuck Cas wants to take them. _Why are they stopping?_ “At the risk of making a fool of myself, I think I want to try and follow the rules. Not for any… sex addict reasons, but for you.” 

“Me?” Dean echoes, still a little hazy and now with sand in his hair and blue balls in his pants. 

“You did say—” Castiel’s face drops, and he looks somewhat alarmed, like he thinks he’s misread the signals and _shit,_ Dean is being a dick again.

“No, right,” he says hastily, sitting up and scooting close to Cas again so that their thighs are touching. “You’re right. And I want to, too. But, um...” Dean looks down and not-so-discretely rearranges what’s in his shorts. “We’re gonna need some way to burn this energy off so we don’t lose our minds.” Dean grins as he looks up, pulling his t-shirt over his head before grabbing Castiel’s hand again and yanking him to his feet. “Race you to the buoys,” he yells, nodding towards the ocean before taking off and running headlong into the Gulf with glee. 

What follows is the best workout of Dean’s life. Although, that _is_ coming from someone who considers having to walk to the liquor store three blocks over because he’s out and already drunk as exercising, but still. He and Castiel chase each other through the water, racing and cheating by pulling the other under by their legs. Dean even climbs onto Castiel’s back and hitches a ride at one point. They splash and laugh and play the stupidest game of Marco Polo until Dean’s muscles burn, he’s breathing hard, and he can barely keep his head above the gentle waves. 

It’s _fun,_ and that might be the most surprising thing of all. It’s been a damn long time since Dean’s just had _fun._

By the time they stagger their way out of the water, rinse off, change, and find their castmates lounging around the pool and in the kitchen, both the day and filming are well underway. Dean pulls Rachel aside and asks what the plans are for the afternoon, if there are any more “surprises” coming. At least according to her (however much she can be trusted—Dean’s guess? Exactly zero), this is it. No plans, nothing on the “official” schedule. Their instructions are to hang out, talk to their castmates, get to know each other. Don’t kiss, don’t have sex. 

Well, two outta three ain’t bad. 

Of course, Rachel has to make Dean regret engaging with her at all when he tries to make his escape (after first grabbing a breakfast sandwich from the picked-over tray someone laid out). “Not so fast,” she says, fingers closing around his wrist in a way that leaves Dean chasing his own hand to get the food into his mouth. _That’s_ attractive. 

Undaunted by Dean’s lack of table manners and his determined efforts to get the _entire_ sandwich in his mouth in less than three bites, Rachel drags him towards the confessional. “Spill about your little beach date with the hot-mess express,” she demands, holding back the curtain pointedly. 

“Don’t talk about him like that,” Dean protests, though because of the sandwich, it comes out more garbled nonsense and sprayed food than the gallant defense he was going for. 

Rachel makes a face and thumbs chewed croissant from her cheek while Dean grins in triumph. “It’s truly shocking you ‘don’t do’ relationships,” she deadpans, sizing him up with obvious distaste. “The boys and girls must be lining up and down the street for a taste of that.” 

Flipping her the bird, Dean ducks behind the curtain and yanks it closed after him. He takes a moment to chew and swallow and tries not to take Rachel’s dig personally, but really, she isn’t wrong. He sucks, he’s nobody’s first choice for a boyfriend, why would he be? What does he even have to _offer_ any takers besides a mix of both daddy _and_ mommy issues, a lackluster savings account, and shitty table manners?

 _Sarcasm._ Dean has that going for him, and don’t you forget it.

“Make sure you talk about why you decided to stay,” Rachel calls through the curtain, and Dean rolls his eyes. 

“Make sure you take the stick out of your ass,” he mumbles under his breath, wiping his greasy mouth on the hem of his t-shirt before clearing his throat and turning to face the camera more fully. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. _Bullshit, just spew some bullshit,_ Dean tells himself, but he’s coming up empty on _what,_ exactly, that should be. 

He scratches the back of his neck. “Alright,” he says, suddenly having another idea. What if he treats this thing like a real confessional? Pretend there’s a priest on the other side? Nothing embarrassing, of course, but…maybe if he gives the crew something usable, the producers will leave him alone. “Okay. So…what if I said, I’m thinking I might not want to be alone anymore? That I’m not… _ready_ to pack it in on finding someone to share my life with.” 

He pauses, licks his lips and thinks carefully about what he wants to say next. He sits loosely, arms on his thighs, turning his palms up. Jo once told him that open body language goes a long way towards making you seem convincing and honest, especially on camera. Some shit she picked up in an acting class. Dean takes a deep breath, and tries.  
  
“The life I live, the work I do, I pretty much just figured that that was all there was to me, you know? Sleep around and hook up and haul ass 'til I ran out of gas. I guess I just thought, sooner or later, I'd go out the same way that I lived; fast, rough, alone. But now, um.” Dean pauses again, looks down at his shoes, jiggles his knee, and shakes his head. “Recent events, uh, made me think I might be closer to that then I really thought. And I don't know, I just—” He sighs in frustration. “I’m finding out that there's things, _people_ , feelings, that I want to experience differently than I have before, or maybe even for the first time."

He looks up, straight into the camera and says, “So I guess I’m gonna see what happens. Try to go a little deeper, no pun intended this time. I’m just—I’m starting to think there's more to it all than I thought. Yeah.” 

The curtain rustles and Rachel sticks her head in, looking like she just won the lottery. “Holy fuck, Winchester,” she says. “A-plus stuff, that was fuckin’ brilliant. C’mon, I’ll get you a beer, you deserve it.” She disappears again and Dean blinks, somewhat thrown at the revelation that anyone was listening in on his little moment. He throws a last look at the camera before gathering himself, plastering on a smile, and following her out. A beer sounds damn good right about now.

***

Margiekugels in hand, Dean goes in search of Cas. He’s mysteriously disappeared from the group while Dean was busy being bullied into acting emotionally vulnerable with a camera lens, and is in none of the expected places. Not the bedroom, the bathroom, or the kitchen. Not in the ocean or down by the dock. Not making a fool of himself in the confessional. 

After a bit of wandering and the ditching of his empty beer bottle in a potted plant, Dean finally stumbles upon Cas hiding in a shady patch behind one of the outer buildings. It’s an area of the resort that’s dangerously close to the production quarters. They’re not supposed to be back here, but it’s not like this is even the first rule he and Cas have broken today, so whatever. 

When Dean turns the corner, Cas looks up like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Except here, the cookie jar is a joint, and Cas is finishing up taking a pretty substantial hit. He smiles guiltily and then looks down at his bare toes, cheeks flushing. “I told you that you might not like what you find,” his gravely voice says. “And here you are, finding me anyway.” 

“What, the weed?” Dean questions, stepping off of the sidewalk and crunching across bark and twigs to stand against the wall by Cas’ side. The palm fronds overhead sway slowly, making the patchy sunlight on Cas’ face flicker. He looks sad. Dean reaches down and takes what’s left of the joint from Cas’ hand, lifting it to his lips and inhaling. 

It’s been ages since he did this, and only a few times with a bartender he used to see who liked to fuck high. _Cassie,_ her name was—ironically—and Dean huffs a laugh as he holds in the smoke, but doesn’t share why. She was hot, but Dean was _young_ and Sam was still in high school. By that time, Dean was all that was standing between his kid brother and a blue-collar life he didn’t deserve to be pigeon-holed into. Cassie never stood a chance in comparison, and Dean—well, Dean’s never come close to anything resembling a relationship since. 

Until now. 

He turns his head, looks down the scant two inches to meet Cas’ eyes, flicking his gaze down to Cas’ lips. Cas seems to understand, and as he parts them, Dean leans in closer and releases the smoke. They don’t break the rules again, their lips never touch, but Dean blows what’s in his lungs straight into Cas’, and it’s easily as intimate as if they had. 

“Hmm,” Castiel hums happily as Dean draws back and relaxes against the wall. Next to him, Cas is looking _much_ more at ease now, if somewhat glassier in the eyes. “That was delightful.” When he speaks, the smoke escapes from his mouth, and Dean _wishes_ he could chase it. “And not the response I was expecting.”

“I got no issue with pot, Cas,” Dean says, hooking his pinky finger into Castiel’s where it hangs at his side. In response, Castiel smiles, but something dark passes behind his eyes and he shifts his gaze down again.

“You may have an issue with why I use it,” he replies softly, but he doesn’t pull his hand away. “Earlier, when I said I was an addict, I wasn’t _only_ referring to sex. In fact, I know that I am not a sex addict, because I am, in reality, a heroin addict. I’m very familiar with the line between what is addiction and what is hedonism. Sex is a coping mechanism for me, a replacement. So is marijuana.” 

“So?” Dean replies with a shrug. “Dude, that’s fucking awesome. I think _you’re_ awesome. Smoke all the pot you want if it keeps you off that garbage. Or hell, smoke it because you want to, I don’t give a shit. Have you seen how much I drink? Be pretty hypocritical of me to judge your means of escapism.”

Castiel laughs softly and tilts his head back against the wall, watching Dean fondly, so Dean flashes him his widest smile. “You are a good man, Dean Winchester,” he says.

Dean snorts and tries to shake off the way his cheeks flame. “Your standards are shitty,” he replies, dismissive. In his hand, the roach is nearly kicked, so Dean holds it up. “May I?” he asks. Cas nods, so Dean takes a drag that burns it all the way to the makeshift filter. Once done, he scrapes the lit end against the side of the house to put it out. As he exhales, the THC really hits his bloodstream, making him feel floaty and a little dissociated. 

“Whoa,” he remarks approvingly, looking up into the tree cover and enjoying the way the light fractalizes and bounces off of the shiny leaves.

“It’s medical,” Castiel supplies. “Very high quality. Potent.” 

“Bet it’s incredible to have sex on.” 

At his side, Dean feels Castiel wrap lithe fingers around his bicep and press his face into his shoulder. “You have _no_ idea,” he mutters, mostly into Dean’s shirt. “As much as I want you to find out—and Dean, I _really_ do—I think we should go back to the party. I—”

He breaks off, pulls back a little, and Dean tears his eyes away from the pretty leafy dance going on above his head to try and focus on his friend. “What, Cas?” he asks gently, mesmerized all the more by the blue of Castiel’s eyes. _So blue. So pretty._

“I just—I truly enjoyed what happened here. You, the way you—” He stops and shakes his head, taking a deep breath before grabbing Dean by the hand and dragging him back towards civilization. 

“Alrighty, Cas,” Dean replies breezily as he follows behind, feeling like his feet are barely touching the ground as he walks. In his head, he giddily decides that Cas makes him feel like he’s walking on air.

As they round the corner of the building, Cas pulls a pack of gum from his pocket and pops a piece, offering Dean one too, which he accepts. As Dean chews, the cinnamon that he’s been smelling vaguely on Cas’s person suddenly makes sense.

The group greets them to a chorus of thinly veiled threats warning that they better not have been off fucking around, and Dean abruptly remembers that no one knows he and Cas kissed on the beach yet. Though, from the look on Victor’s face, it’s pretty clear he’s assuming they have, and he ain’t happy about it.

Still, Lana hasn’t outed them, so Dean certainly isn’t about to. He flashes Vic a sunny smile and helps himself to another beer before shoving Castiel sideways into the pool and then following him in.

Despite Dean’s apprehensive misgivings, there are no new surprises for the rest of the day. In fact, it’s pretty damn chill. Everyone hangs out in and around the pool, drinking and snacking, playing “get to know you” games that the producers suggest but don’t force them to do. Two Truths and a Lie, Get-to-Know-You-Jenga, and a thing with M&Ms where the colors correspond to various questions and you answer whichever one you pick out of the bowl. 

The whole group mostly stays together, though Dean’s scrutinizing eye picks up that he and Cas aren’t the only ones gravitating towards someone specific and away from the others. It’s all very new, and no one seems overly interested in peeling off for one-on-one time yet, which Dean thinks is probably for the best. He and Cas can cuddle in the hot tub and drape themselves over each other’s shoulders in the pool just fine with everyone else around—especially since they’re all doing the same thing. 

Too much time alone with Cas right now won’t lead anywhere good, Dean knows it. Hell, they spent half an hour together on the beach and ended up horizontal in the sand. They got high in the bushes and Dean was ready to drop to his knees right there.

He’s trying, but he’s not a damn saint, he’s perpetually tipsy, and Cas is basically half-naked all the time in front of him. It’s not the best recipe for self-restraint and celibacy.

Anyway, Dean’s learning a lot about Cas in the group setting, and sharing as much right back. It’s clear that Cas is directing his answers to questions and to trivia and such at _Dean,_ which is both flattering and intimidating. For the hundredth time today, Dean both wants to run screaming from this place _and_ to try harder. Every time Cas takes his turn in a game or answers a “getting to know you” M&M, he makes an effort to turn his body towards Dean, to make eye contact, to talk _to him,_ as if no one else is even there. 

The urge to drop to his knees only gets stronger, but Dean also _likes_ Cas more with each passing minute. And sure, maybe the booze and weed is lubricating the way, making things seem easier, more perfect than the cold, hard reality he knows life to be, but what’s so wrong with that? Dean’s doing something he never thought he would, didn’t even consider himself _capable_ of just days prior, and he’s proud of that. A little oil on the gears is the least he deserves—at least, that’s what Dean’s telling himself. 

Sometime in the early evening, the producers ask them all to gather on the furniture next to the pool, the same place where Lana dropped her bomb on them the night before. The camera people set up in front of the space, and there are a decent number of production staff roaming around, so Dean feels like he has a good idea of what’s coming. This is a moment they want to capture, and to capture correctly, the first time. 

As he drags himself up off of the lounger he’s been half-dozing in, Dean catches Cas’ eye and pulls a face. Cas’ only response is to take his hand and lead them both over to one of the two-person loveseats, pulling Dean down insistently, nearly onto his lap. 

Lana chimes.

“There has been a breach of the rules,” she says, and _every_ eye in the place goes directly to Dean, Cas, and their guilty-ass expressions. 

When all is said and done, the two of them have cost the group three thousand dollars and cost themselves a few budding friendships. Victor looks downright murderous, but the other contestants don’t seem to share his bloodlust, so he settles for pouting alone. Charlie is the only one who seems thrilled for them, catching Dean after the crowd has broken up to fling arms around his neck and jump up and down in excitement.

“So, Castiel,” she says, shifting back only to slap Dean on the arm surprisingly hard for such a little girl. “He seems helpful and…dreamy.”

She’s so bright-eyed and genuine, Dean can’t resist the smile that crops up on his face. He easily lets her hook an arm through his and escort them over to grab some dinner from the kitchen. “Helpful?” he questions.

“Oh, uh…” Charlie looks around furtively and then leans up to whisper in Dean’s ear. “I might’ve been feeling a little anxious earlier, and Cas noticed. He was nice enough to share his ‘medicine’ with me, if you catch my drift.” Charlie (badly) mimes smoking a joint, and Dean laughs. 

“Yeah, he’s pretty cool,” Dean agrees, his gaze involuntarily searching the man in question out. Mr. Pretty Cool is currently standing across the way, eating a chicken leg over a paper plate while watching Charlie and Dean collect their own dinners. When he sees Dean looking, he waves, mouth full and said chicken leg still in hand. “Alright, maybe not _cool,_ ” Dean amends. “He’s pretty dorky.” 

Charlie elbows him in the ribs, in between plopping several giant scoops of rice onto her plate. “Guess dorky must be your thing, Romeo,” she teases.

“Guess so,” Dean replies, before he even realizes what he’s saying. 

As soon as dinner is over, production turns the heat up a notch. They’re all told to prepare for another party, which sends the girls scattering to change outfits and fix their makeup and sends the guys to the bar. The night is fun, everyone seemingly forgiving Dean and Cas for their slip-up (though Victor keeps a skeptical eye on them at all times) and accepting them back into the fold. 

There are free-flowing shots and glow stick necklaces wrapped around necks and wrists, plus loud music and dancing. The breeze is warm and the atmosphere is beautiful, the sun’s dying rays taking endless hours to melt completely into the horizon, leaving the sky streaked red and orange for what feels like ages. 

Overall, the party turns out to be a fantastic way to take the pressure off of all of them, and the first night of living under the rule change. For a while, Dean is actually able to forget how ridiculously horny he is, how much he wants to “get to know” Cas in a more intimate way. 

By midnight, everyone is wasted, and previously guarded inhibitions are beginning to drop even further. Somehow, Dean finds himself in the pool in his boxers, playing a game of chicken with Lisa perched on his shoulders. Her opponent is a very-wobbly Dorothy being held up by Dr. Matt. Dean still thinks the guy has the personality of wet cardboard, but he’s definitely more fun when he’s drunk. 

It’s only when Dorothy finally topples Lisa in triumph, assisted by Dr. Matt’s sneaky foot sweeping behind Dean’s already unsteady ankles, that the night goes a little sideways. Dizzy from the booze, Dean’s completely unable to regain his footing, going under the water right alongside Lisa. 

He sputters as he surfaces, while Lisa shrieks and clings to him, yelling about her mascara and asking Dean if it’s ruined. He laughs, because of course it is, running down her cheeks in black rivulets the more she blinks. Lisa is surprisingly good-natured with it all, making a joke about how if she doesn’t find love here, she’s screwed. No one is going to want to date her back home after seeing her looking like a wet raccoon on camera.

She’s funny, and Dean thinks she’s pretty cool, so he doesn’t think twice about going out of his way to grab her a towel and help her wipe the worst of the mess away. It never even occurs to him that what he’s doing might be interpreted as flirting, by Lisa or anyone else, because he’s _not._ For the first time in a long time, actually, physical attraction or no, Dean’s just trying to be friendly—to _make_ and keep a friend. 

Nothing seems amiss until after Dorothy comes over to where he and Lisa are sitting across from each other on two of the poolside lounges. Dean is ultimately making things worse on her poor face at this point, and Dorothy rolls her eyes, grabs Lisa’s hand, and drags her off to the bedroom to get her fixed up. As they run away giggling, Dean sighs and sits back, looking around for someone else to talk to.

Victor and Alicia are in the pool, engaged in what looks like a pretty deep conversation. Sure that he would not be welcomed into it, Dean leaves them be. Dr. Matt is back at the bar, mixing himself what looks like a bucket-sized purple beverage filled with a shot of everything on offer, and Dean wants _no_ part of that. 

Finally, his eyes find Cas. He’s tucked into the shadows of the hot tub that sits on the other side of the wall of the gathering area beside the pool. Catching a flash of a red not found in nature that can only be Charlie’s hair, Dean eagerly shoves himself vertical and stumbles somewhat drunkenly over to his friends. 

The hot tub is bubbling ferociously, and it’s late enough now that the breeze coming in off of the ocean has turned cool, so it looks plenty inviting. “Hey,” Dean says brightly, looking up from the churning foam to find Charlie scowling at him with her arms crossed. The ends of her long red hair trail over the surface of the water, soaked and darker than the rest as she slumps down in the corner of the tub. “What’s wrong with you?” 

“Why don’t you ask your buddy, _Lisa?”_ Charlie scoffs. “Since you like her so much. Guess everybody just prefers _Lisa,_ guess my life is over and I’m going to die alone.” With a very dramatic sigh, Charlie sinks down into the water until her eyes are submerged. She lasts less than thirty seconds like that before surfacing with a gasp. “Okay, _hot,”_ she splutters, reaching over the side of the tub and grabbing her beer to take a large sip. 

Confused, Dean turns to Cas for help, but his eyes look different, closed-off somehow. Still, he obliges. “She’s concerned that Dorothy is courting Lisa and is no longer interested in getting to know Charlie.” There’s silence for a moment, and then Castiel lifts himself out of the water, sitting on the edge of the tub before swinging his legs over. The water drips from his body in a way that would be tantalizingly distracting if Dean wasn’t so worried about Cas’ dull, disinterested tone. “If you’ll excuse me.”

“Cas, wait—” Dean starts, but Cas is already walking away, leaving a dark trail of damp footprints in his wake. Dean turns back to Charlie, scratching his head. “Okay, I’m drunk, but I’m not _blackout_ drunk. The hell did I miss here?” 

Down in the water, Charlie just raises her eyebrows, draping her arms over the ledges on either side. “Dorothy’s not the only one in the doghouse,” she says vaguely, and it takes another moment for Dean’s alcohol-soaked brain to click online. 

“Wait,” he says in disbelief. “He thinks—me and Lisa? Dude, no.” 

Charlie just shrugs, somewhat despondently. “Me and Cas made a club. The Losers Club. We even have a slogan, want to hear it?” She doesn’t so much as give Dean a chance to open his mouth before continuing. “We Hate Love. It’s good, right?” 

“Kay, first of all, you’re an idiot,” Dean replies, holding his hand out for emphasis. “I mean, I can’t speak for Dorothy, but if she’s dumb enough to pass on the coolest chick here, that’s her goddamn loss. And hey, there’s still the money. But don’t get ahead of yourself, alright? Cas sure as fuck did. Me and Lis—there’s nothing there, Charlie.” He glances off into the dark, in the direction Castiel walked. He’s long gone now, but Dean has a pretty good idea of where he went.

“Go on,” Charlie tells him, giving a “get-lost” wave before pointing in the direction of Matt, who’s rounding the corner of the house with his giant, over-filled drink in hand. “I think this Jacuzzi and that concoction are all the therapy I need right now, anyway.” 

“Thanks Charles,” Dean replies distractedly, already moving off of the patio and into the night, pulling his t-shirt on over his head as he goes. “I’ll check in with you later, okay? You need a bed buddy, I’m here for you.”

Charlie snorts. “That’s just what I need, to be the tuna in yours and Cas’ peanut butter sandwich.” 

That makes Dean stop in his tracks, pulling a disgusted face. “Not touching that one with a ten-foot pole,” he says.

“ _Go,"_ Charlie replies, her teasing tone fading, replaced with a new urgency in her voice that worries Dean, just a little. “He really believes you were playing him.” 

A pang of fear Dean’s _never_ felt before strikes his heart, and he takes off like a shot. He’s shoeless and bumbling as he walks, all of the drinks he’s had seemingly catching up to him in an instant. At some point, he steps on a shell or a rock or some shit, cursing and nearly going to his knees from the pain, but Dean keeps going. 

It seems like forever until he gets to Cas’ smoking spot, but that’s mostly the inky dark and Dean’s own altered state distorting things. Even before he turns the corner, Dean can smell the sweet, pungent weed pervading the air, and it brings him a rush of relief. Not that Cas could actually _go_ anywhere (though, Dean’s not convinced he wouldn’t steal a boat or a car if he really wanted to), but this shit means something to him. The Retreat, and more so, Cas himself. The idea that Cas has got him all wrong—it sits terribly in the pit of Dean’s stomach. 

The vegetation-framed little space behind this wing of the house has no light at all, save for what spills over the edges from the path Dean steps off of on his way there. It’s not even enough to reveal Cas’ presence. If Dean couldn’t smell his smoke, he wouldn’t have any idea he was here. Distantly, Dean wonders if there are any of those night-vision cameras around, the kind their sleeping quarters have bolted in every corner. 

_Probably,_ he decides. Seems unlikely production would leave any part of the resort unmonitored, considering the stakes. Right now, someone is probably a wall away, watching this whole thing go down on monitors and cheering over the drama. Dean sighs.

“Cas,” he calls out, and as he blinks into the dark, his eyes begin to adjust. The outline of Cas’ body becomes visible, and he steps forward, towards Dean. The cherry on his joint comes into view, a burning ember in otherwise pitch-black. 

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says carefully. 

Now that he’s here, Dean feels a little silly and at a loss for words. “I’m sorry if I—”

“I apologize for overreacting,” Castiel says, virtually at the same time. “If I was.” 

“You were,” Dean assures him. Firm, but not rude or with any judgement. He takes a deep breath, dropping his hands to his sides. “Cas, I’m bad at this. I don’t know how to do anything right with you. Not only that, but I don’t know how to be _just friends_ with people I might’ve slept with, otherwise. Dude, I’m trying. I really am. I wasn’t flirting with Lisa. The only person I wanna do this dumb “deeper connections” thing with is _you,_ okay?” 

It’s humiliating to spill all that out without even being able to gauge Cas’ reactions. It leaves Dean anxious and near-shaking, sure that Cas is going to tell him to get lost, that he’s blown his chance. But Cas just steps into his space, tucks his face into Dean’s neck, and hugs him around his middle. Relieved, Dean sinks into him, hugging back and running his hands over Cas’ shoulders and hair and whatever else is in reach ( _like his ass—_ hey, Dean is only human). 

“This is so foreign for both of us,” Castiel says quietly. “It’s only natural there would be…misunderstandings, miscommunications.” There’s a pause where they just hold each other, Dean relishing the way Cas’ hard body feels against his own and then, “Thank you. For coming to find me.” 

Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the soft vulnerability in Castiel’s voice, but Dean suddenly knows what he wants to do, and _damn the consequences._ Cas deserves something, deserves to see that Dean’s serious about him, that he’s willing to not only put him first but to sacrifice for him. Even if that sacrifice is something stupid, in the grand scheme of things. He shifts back enough to find Castiel’s hand, take the roach, and kick it. 

This time, when Dean leans in to exhale into Castiel’s mouth, he follows it with a kiss. The smoke drifts and dissipates around them, and Dean kisses Cas like his life depends on it. 

It _hardly_ feels like a sacrifice, that’s for sure.

The sparking pull that draws Dean to Cas in general explodes and amplifies times a thousand when they’re like this. Cas’ body, naked save for his swim trunks and a towel around his hips, is pressed up against Dean’s, their tongues sliding together in earnest. Cas doesn’t pull back for breath, just gasps into Dean’s mouth, maybe so that this all counts as one kiss, maybe because he can’t bring himself to stop. 

Dean decides to believe it’s the latter—it definitely is for him.

All of that makes it _so easy_ to take things to the next level, to follow through on his intended “gift” to Castiel. He gets his hands on Castiel’s shoulders, pushing him away and breaking their kiss with a _smack_ and great reluctance on both of their parts. The little of Cas’ face he can see in the dark, he’s terribly beautiful and drunk on the moment, and Dean just wants to give him more.

Especially knowing Cas’ history—maybe that’s a shitty excuse or whatever, but Cas is on a whole different level than the other people here. Using sex to cope with addiction isn’t a negative in Dean’s mind, so long as it ain’t hurting anybody. It’s kinda shitty to take that away, to expect Cas to be able to operate like everyone else who’s just horny and stupid bad at acting like an adult. 

Fortunately, this? Dean can fix. And it’ll be worth every damn penny. 

Determined, he shoves Cas up against the side of the house, making him grunt. With a meaningful look that he hopes Cas can see through the shadows, Dean drops to his knees. Right away, Cas groans quietly, widening his stance and making himself comfortable against the wall. Both of his hands go right to Dean’s hair; he knows what the fuck is up, and he’s down with it. 

They were standing in mulch, so now that’s what Dean has the pleasure of kneeling on. It’s uncomfortable; little pieces of bark poking into his skin, making the ground uneven beneath his bones, but Dean barely cares. He’ll probably regret it later when the liquor and weed wear off, but for now, Dean just sees Cas. Just _wants_ him, and badly.

Once he has Cas’ green light, Dean works the towel off and his shorts down, letting them drop to his ankles. If Cas has reservations about doing this out here, where anyone could stumble upon them, he doesn’t say so. Dean knows it’s a moot point—since they’re almost certainly being filmed—but he cares exactly not at all. As far as he’s concerned, the only person in the entire world right now is Cas.

In front of him, Cas’ cock is steadily filling out, heavy and thick. It’s slightly wider than Dean’s, maybe an inch shorter—perfect-sized, exactly what Dean likes. “Cas,” Dean murmurs, running a hand up Cas’ thick, muscular thigh. The _only_ thing wrong with this scenario is that they’re not on a bed where Cas can squeeze his head in between those gorgeous things. _That_ thought has Dean stiffening up in his own shorts, pressing the heel of his hand to his crotch in response. 

“Want you,” he says into Castiel’s skin, pressing a soft kiss to the crease of his groin. Above him, Castiel exhales in a measured way, barely suppressing a twitch of his pelvis that suggests he wishes Dean would get a move on. Smiling to himself, Dean wraps his hand around Castiel’s cock and strokes loosely until he’s nearly fully erect. 

Starting at the base, Dean teases with his tongue, licking a stripe up the length of him, and Cas’ reaction is beyond satisfying. Cas moans, his head thudding against the stucco, his hips doing their best not to rock. Dean removes his hand, uses it to press Castiel back against the wall by his chiseled hip bones before tonguing around the head of his cock and then swallowing him all the way down. 

As Dean swirls his tongue and sucks, humming and taking Cas as deep down his throat as he’s able, Cas seems to waver between trying to muffle his sounds and wanting to be as loud as he can be. Dean would laugh if it were possible—if they happened to be getting away with this before, he’s sure they aren’t now. 

“Dean, _Dean,”_ Castiel murmurs, and that encouragement is all Dean needs to go harder. Once he’s adjusted to the sensation of having his throat fucked, he sets Cas’ hips free, lets him thrust all he wants. He forces his jaw to go slack, swallows around the intrusion, doesn’t forget to use his tongue in the meantime. 

This ain’t Dean’s first rodeo— _this_ is something he knows that he’s good at, knows he can make good _for_ Cas. It matters to him in a way it never has before that it _is_ good for Cas. 

In fact—Dean doesn’t worry about himself at all. He’s hard in his pants, sure, but he’s not touching himself or making any attempt to get off. 

When Cas tenses and shudders and comes hot and with a thrilling moan down Dean’s throat, he _feels_ like he could probably come too, just from the experience. The way Cas curls around his upper body, then yanks him to his feet and tries to kiss the taste of himself right out of Dean’s mouth—it’s the sexiest kind of move, it’s everything Dean could ask for in a partner. 

But Dean resists his urges, because this is about _Cas_ , and Dean wants him to know that. So when Cas moves to reciprocate, Dean fights his hands down, says, “No, sweetheart, I’m all kinds of good.” As much as Dean can’t see, he knows Cas is looking at him quizzically, but Dean just nuzzles his nose under Cas’ jaw and squeezes his hip. “Wanna go to bed?” he asks, hopeful. 

“With you?” 

“I mean, only if—”

“Yes.” 

Dean doesn’t need to see Cas’ face to know that he’s smiling.

***


	4. Chapter 4

Waking up in Cas’ arms hasn’t lost its lustre one bit. If anything, it’s even better the second time around. _Seven-thirty_ , reads the clock. Dean stretches and yawns, arching back against Cas’ chest as he stirs, humming with happiness before closing his eyes again and drifting. So sue him for stealing a few more minutes of peace with Cas—Dean is _sure_ the producers will have something up their sleeves for today, and at _best,_ the two of them are going to have to answer for their crimes.

When they arrived back at the room last night, there was some kind of drama going down with the girls. Despite the loud crying and shoe-throwing, they’d managed to avoid being pulled in, and Dean still isn’t entirely sure what the whole thing was about. He would have asked Charlie, but she was buried under several layers of bed covers by the time he sought her out. Brushing teeth side-by-side and exchanging shy smiles with Cas while their castmates screamed at each other in the adjacent room was a kind of weird Dean hopes to never experience again, but on the other hand, he’s nothing except grateful it wasn’t _Cas_ yelling at him. 

No, the two of them are _good,_ and seemingly on the same page about only having eyes for each other. Now, anyway. 

The day passes fairly quickly. Smoothly, in fact, and with no surprises save for the big reveal of the damage that’s been done to the prize pot. As expected, Dean and Cas suffer the wrath of their castmates—Victor even throws a drink on them and says some choice words that Dean’s pretty sure even Netflix can’t air. 

To his shock, though, he and Cas weren’t the only ones breaking the rules the night before, and _that_ drama pulls the spotlight away from them in a big way. Apparently, Lisa and Dorothy had a little makeout session of their own, which led to the knock-down, drag-out screaming fight they walked in on. 

Fortunately for Charlie and _un_ fortunately for the production team, Dorothy had come crawling back on her hands and knees early this morning ( _guess “on your knees” was the theme of last night’s party,_ Dean thinks). They’d worked things out in a very emotional moment on the beach at sunrise that everyone else was blessedly unconscious for, and are already back to cuddling on a loveseat together. Although, from the way Charlie is glaring, she’s still very prepared to hate Lisa for the rest of their lives. 

Regardless of the fact that his and Cas’ blowjob-plus-pucker-up cost the group nine thousand dollars and Lisa and Dorothy’s little fling only lost them three, everyone seems to lump both indiscretions together. Equally irresponsible, and all that. Once the cameras get whatever they need of people bitching about money, though, the fire seems to go out of the complainers’ sails. Even Victor seems to have resigned himself to the fact that the pot going down is more or less inevitable. 

Dean side-eyes that, wonders if Vic has his eye on breaking some rules himself with Alicia later. _Good for him._

The producers end up giving them another entire day of hanging out and socializing. Dean can hardly believe their luck, but he’s not about to question it, either. He plays a few board games with Charlie and Cas, has a leisurely lunch with Cas and Lisa down on the beach, and overall, keeps picking Cas’ brain about who he is, where he comes from, and what he’s about. 

That quest becomes easier when Rachel pulls Dean aside and offers him the use of some paddleboards, if he wants to take Cas out on the ocean, just the two of them. Of course, there’s a catch—the boards come with a crew following behind in a beat little dingy rowed by a guy who looks so bored even _he_ can’t believe he’s awake, but it’s still fun. Dean even manages to open up to Cas some, talking about the loss of his mom and his dad’s subsequent struggle to cope. How he basically raised Sam and gave up everything in his own life to do it.

In return, Cas goes into more detail about his addiction—how he broke his foot and got hooked on the narcotics he was prescribed. How he found it impossible to quit them and how it slowly took over his life until he found himself shooting heroin in a flophouse. If he hadn’t had brothers that cared and went looking for him, Cas tells Dean, he would have died there. 

He’s a triplet, Cas is—one brother named Jimmy and one named Manny, both unbelievably straight-laced and responsible. A fucking accountant and a pastor who’s known for prayerful healing, which makes Cas the unquestioned black sheep of the trio. _Still,_ he says, they love him like he isn’t, and that’s why he’s here today. 

Everything he says makes Dean want to know more, to get closer, to peel back Castiel’s layers and find out what’s underneath. Spending an entire afternoon watching Cas’ back muscles flex as he balances on the board and propels himself forward with the paddle has that thought translating pretty fucking literally, too—but that’s neither here nor there. Doesn’t matter, they make it through the day and another night of cuddling without breaking any rules, ten points to Gryffindor.

As time goes on, Dean’s (shockingly) finding it easier and easier to ignore the cameras. After all, he’s already done the worst stuff possible in front of them, what’s a little emotional vulnerability? Sam is gonna lose his hair when he sees this, Dean can feel it already. There’s no way in hell he’s going to be able to convince his little brother that the show isn’t scripted. 

Well, not unless he has some _one_ by his side to back him up…

But that’s not something Dean can even begin to think about. Not yet.

Sometime during day four, the producers announce that the group is going to participate in a workshop. They’re hustled down to the grassy courtyard where they hung out on that first day, waiting to film their entrances. Upon stepping in, Dean takes note of four portable platforms—maybe three feet by three feet—spread out several yards apart on the grass. 

Right away, Rachel divvies them all into twosomes: Dean and Cas ( _fucking yes),_ Charlie and Dorothy, Victor and Alicia, Doctor Matt and Lisa. They’re each assigned a platform and they take their places.

Added to the faux-wooden spaces they’re standing on are several long lengths of soft, pliable rope and _oh, more hell yes._ Dean’s pretty sure he knows where this _workshop_ is headed, and he’s _way_ in. From the sparkle in Cas’ eye, he is too.

“Shibari,” their instructor declares, as she walks leisurely through the grass in between the various pairings of people. “That’s what we’re dipping our toes into today. It’s sexy, it’s fun, and it’s an amazing tool to help you develop communication strategies with your partner that you can then apply to other aspects of your relationship. It takes trust to allow someone to tie you up, takes focus and discipline to ensure you’re caring for the person you’re binding. You have to talk to your partner to ensure you’re meeting each other’s needs, that everyone is having fun. Be vocal about what you like, what you _don’t_ like. Lean into the power play aspects, take turns giving up and taking control. And then take what you’ve learned with you when you go.”

The hardest thing about the Shibari workshop for Dean is pretending he hasn’t done this before. Cas catches on quickly though, as he’s twining the rope around Dean’s wrists and up his arms and Dean naturally relaxes into it. “Hmm,” Cas hums thoughtfully, a knowing smile gracing his face and that twinkle from earlier returning to his eyes. “Isn’t that interesting?” 

“Is it?” Dean replies softly, stepping closer as Castiel winds the rope around both of their torsos, binding them together. 

“Oh, yes,” Cas says, holding the ends of the rope up with one hand and lifting his eyes to meet Dean’s. 

_Gulp,_ is the only word that comes to Dean’s mind. The patch of grass their platform is on sits directly under a large palm frond waving overhead. There’s a soft breeze, the day is warm but not excruciatingly hot, and the ocean can be heard crashing in the background. And yet, all of that pales in comparison, loses its lustre and shine, fades easily into the background when competing for attention with the man that’s standing in front of Dean. 

If his hands weren’t tied and bound to his chest, Dean would reach out and cup Castiel’s cheek. If his physical wants and needs weren’t equally tied without any rope at all, he’d lean forward and kiss him. As it is, all he can do is stare into Cas’ eyes and let him stare back. It trips Dean up, this kind of intimacy with no expectation, but at the same time, he’s started to get used to it—maybe even crave it. It’s easily as powerful as any off-limits moment they’ve shared, and secretly, Dean is _so_ glad that he stayed.

Maybe not so secretly. Cas seems to get it, anyway. Right now, he leans forward so that their foreheads touch, closing his eyes and leading Dean to follow suit. Dean can’t decide whether to shove down or lean into how safe and secure being wrapped up like this ( _and with Cas)_ makes him feel, so he just goes with it. 

Their moment is interrupted all too soon by the sound of giggling girls—or more specifically, a cackling redhead. Dean cracks one eye open to find Charlie and Dorothy working off to their right, Charlie gleefully winding rope around Dorothy in a way that looks the exact opposite of what he and Cas have been doing. 

“How is this fun?!” Dorothy squeals from her seat on the platform, delicate wrists bound tight to her ankles. 

“I dunno, I’m having a great time,” Charlie replies, fitting the rope in between Dorothy’s teeth and continuing to twist.

 _Right,_ Dean thinks, suppressing a laugh. Things could be worse. He could be Charlie, and Cas could be eyeing up other people. At least that’s not on his list of things to worry about.

***

Another night and another relatively uneventful morning follow. Dean’s starting to get the idea that reality TV is heavily edited to make generally boring lives look fast-paced and interesting. _Duh,_ Charlie says, when Dean shares his theory. 

“I wouldn’t know,” Cas replies—he claims he doesn’t watch TV, but Dean’s definitely not buying that. 

Their…fifth?—whatever, Dean’s loosing track—day at the Retreat is filled with a solid mix of both partying and random moments of genuine communication and learning about each other, as well as (so far) the entire crew successfully sticking to Lana’s rules. In the early afternoon, they learn there’s another workshop to be had, and Dean finds himself actually looking forward to it.

This time, the gathering place is the patio on the far side of the pool, the spot where they’d been filmed making entrances and official introductions back on day one. Dean starts to get a sinking feeling in his stomach when he looks around and notices that there are no supplies, no instructor, no signs of a “workshop” of any kind. What he _does_ see are more crew members than normal, extra cameras for capturing different angles, and several producers chewing their nails while trying to blend into the shrubbery. 

_Fuck me,_ Dean thinks. This has all the warning signs of an impending “gotcha” moment—Dean just hopes it’s not for him. He sips from the alcoholic beverage that was placed in his hand by Cas moments earlier, and tries not to worry. After all, he’s been on his best behavior the past day or so, he’s really trying. At the very least, he knows he’s not standing here waiting to be outed for some naughty secret. For once, he didn’t do anything.

After all that, Dean should be _less_ surprised when an attractive guy, half-naked in tiny swim shorts and an unbuttoned gauzy shirt, comes strolling out from the courtyard. He’s not Dean’s type; too military-ish, with gym-cut muscles, buzzed hair, and a way of holding himself that says “don’t fuck with me” in the nastiest way. Dean likes his men a little less douchey than that, thanks, but the guy _does_ have nice eyes. 

Well, if he didn’t use them to visibly undress each person he came across, they’d be nice. 

Dean’s already got his own blue-eyed angel, though. After greeting the new guy— _Cole—_ as warmly as he can muster before dropping his grip like it’s hot, Dean turns to Cas, prepared to see if he wants to swim or maybe ask if they can take those paddleboards out again. Word on the street is that there are one-on-one “dates” up for grabs tonight—and Dean has his eye on the prize. 

The way he figures it, he and Cas are basically a shoe-in. Sure, they’ve flirted with some rule breaks, but they’ve also put themselves out there and made that “genuine connection,” Lana keeps going on about. 

The smile dies on his face, though, when he catches sight of Cas’. For once, Cas’ eyes aren’t on Dean, they’re glued to the portico Cole just came down through, and Dean’s gaze follows with trepidation. His worst fears are confirmed when he sees the object of Castiel’s fascination; a busty, flowing-haired brunette with a smile on her face that _positively_ screams, “Rules? What rules?” 

Swallowing heavily, Dean tries not to panic, but it ain’t easy. This chick is pulling out all the stops from the jump—she’s wearing a skimpy black bikini, a white see-through coverup that barely grazes her shoulders, and stilettos. She’s busty, she’s curvy in all the right places, and her hair falls in long, soft waves down over her chest. Those tresses are held back by sunglasses that she pushes up off of her face with a knowing smirk. 

_Fuck._ Dean can’t compete with that, he _literally_ doesn’t have the equipment. If that’s what Cas likes— _fuck._ He’s screwed. The way Dean seethes when the demon in heels wraps seductive arms around Cas’ shoulders—well, he’s pretty sure the producers are popping champagne bottles over his reaction. They got what they wanted with this game, that’s for sure. 

The next couple of hours are interesting—if by interesting, that means Dean drinks a lot and sits as stiffly as possible while Cole and Meg flirt with anything with a pulse and Cas’ eyes track Meg everywhere she goes. Eventually, he calls Cas on it, just to say, “Hey man, talk to her if you want,” because fuck, he doesn’t own the guy. But Cas just shakes his head and rips his eyes away, giving Dean a small smile and a pat on his hand. 

Which, Dean finds _incredibly_ rude. _What is he, Cas’ wife of fifty years that needs to be patronized? Fuck that._ Dean Winchester may be a mess, but he’s nobody’s consolation prize. 

So maybe that’s why, when both Cole and _Meg_ are awarded the coveted one-on-one dates ( _seriously, why didn’t Dean see this coming?),_ and Meg asks Castiel to come with her, Dean encourages him to go. 

To his credit, Castiel looks genuinely surprised and torn, but Dean just doesn’t have the energy to play games. After Lana relays Meg’s invite, he and Cas are left sitting on two of the cushioned lounges next to the pool, everyone else long-dispersed. Dean leans back, covering his face with his arm. The late afternoon sun is tempered by the leaf cover, so Dean’s warm but not sweating. He’s got a drink by his side, the pool in front of him, and dinner is on the horizon. In other circumstances, this would be downright heavenly. 

He sighs. He seems to be doing a lot of that lately.

“Cas, this is the experience, or whatever,” he says, knowing that Cas is staring him down, even though he can’t see. “They said ‘make meaningful connections,’ not, ‘glue yourself to the first dude you feel something for besides the urge to bone.’ You know? I ain’t mad.” Truthfully, Dean wishes that were a lie, but it isn’t. Cas has to make his own decisions. If he chooses someone other than Dean, then he was always going to do that eventually. Maybe Dean would just rather know now, before he gets too damn deep into his feelings.

Of course, when he drops his arm and blinks against the light only to find Cas’ beautiful blues looking back at him softly, he knows that stupid ship has sailed. Whatever, so he’s stuck with hoping Cas comes back. He can deal with that. 

“Is there someone else you might like to get to know better?” Cas asks carefully, and Dean sits up, shaking both his head and his finger vehemently.

“Oh no,” he says. “See that? That’s a trap.” He grins, reaching out to cup Cas around the side of his face with his hand before shoving him away playfully. Castiel laughs as he resurfaces.

“I’ll think about it,” Cas finally answers, while looking over at Meg laughing with Victor in the hot tub. Inwardly, Dean resolves to not feel anything at all about _that_.

Luckily, they’re saved from having to continue this terrible conversation by the producers sweeping through. Rachel and her cronies interrupt the relative peace by requesting that the entire group convene together on the loveseats and sofa set back from the pool. Dean’s come to think of it as the “Lana Bomb” area, so either someone’s broken the rules, or there’s another “surprise” coming. If it’s the latter, Dean just hopes it’s not as shitty as the last one. 

Of small comfort, Cas drags him down into their normal seating arrangement on one of the loveseats and keeps a possessive arm around Dean’s waist while the wait. When he catches Meg staring at them, Dean successfully fights off the urge to stick out his tongue, but only barely.

From her place on the stone coffee table, Lana’s cone chimes. The LED ring around her middle lights up neon green today.

“I have observed a collective growth, and I have a gift for each of you to help you on the next step of your journey.”

“It’s like Christmas!” Charlie declares, as a murmur of hopeful excitement erupts from those gathered.

“Victor, please open my box.” To a chorus of laughter and lewd jokes that Dean is sure will be edited out, Victor scoots off of the big couch and picks up a wooden container sitting right next to Lana’s cone. 

Dean cranes his neck to see as Victor flips the box open on a hinge, revealing that inside, there are a bunch of smart watches displayed against red velvet. Everyone gets one, and the producers instruct them to keep the devices on at all times. They’re kind of clunky, not exactly Dean’s style, but he was never into that sort of technology, anyway (nor could he afford it). 

_Better be an upside to this,_ he thinks, just as Lana begins speaking again.

“When your watch is neutral, the Retreat rules apply,” she says. Some of the girls gasp, but Dean doesn’t quite follow their train of thought, so he stays quiet and waits for someone to spell it out. 

“But if it changes…” Matt starts, and Lisa quickly chimes in, grabbing his arm with excitement.

“You’ll probably change the color to give us a second to…um, connect?” she volunteers, clearly addressing Lana in an expectant manner. Everyone’s gazes dart to the white cone, as if she’s an actual person. For all Dean knows, she is—it’s probably fucking Rachel back there, running text-to-speech from the control room. 

“That is correct,” probably-Rachel-Lana confirms. “When two people form a genuine connection, they’ll be given a green light for a limited amount of time. What you do with that opportunity is up to you.” 

“My neck is going to get sore from checking on it,” Alicia mutters.

That’s the end of Lana’s declaration. Soon after, the group breaks apart, with Cole, Alicia, and Meg heading off to get ready for their dates. Cas stays behind with Dean, and despite the protective emotional walls he’s quickly throwing up in his own mind, even Dean can see that Cas isn’t sure what the right course of action here is.

“Listen,” Dean tries, unable to believe that he’s giving this dude he has budding feelings for advice on how to date other people, even for one measly dinner. “Just have fun. I swear, I’m not holding it against you. Am I jealous? Fuck yeah. That bitch looks like she wants to peel your skin off and wear it around like a blanket. If she offers you lotion, just know it’s a trap. Also, To Serve Man is a cookbook.” 

That gets a smile out of Cas, so Dean continues. “But I’m pretty sure we’re supposed to make friends here. And to be fair, I probably get that skin-blanket look on my face when I see you, too. Especially when you haul yourself out of the pool, all wet and sexy.” Dean pokes Castiel in the stomach and he laughs softly. 

“That is a strangely endearing sentiment. You’re a good man, Dean Winchester,” Castiel says, way too serious, and Dean flushes as he looks away. He chances a glance down at his watch, but no dice. 

Once again, their moment is interrupted. Rachel stops by, crouching down and tapping Castiel on the shoulder. “They want you in the confessional before you head to dinner with Meg,” she says, casting a sympathetic glance over at Dean that he truly resents. 

As Castiel squeezes his shoulder and heads off, Dean wanders over to the kitchen to find some other dateless loser to hang out with. Inside, it’s just Lisa, and she looks particularly pouty. “Where’s Matt?” Dean asks, knowing that the two of them have been getting closer the past couple of days. They acted pretty cozy during that little bondage sesh, anyway, and Lisa didn’t seem to so much as look twice at Cole or Meg. 

“He’s ‘taking some time to himself,’” Lisa relays, with air quotes and a put-upon sigh and eye roll combo. “Which probably means meditating down by the water. I don’t know who he thinks he’s fooling, though. Or why he’s taking it out on me. I’m as pissed off as he is.”

“Heh?” Dean replies, grunting around a giant bite of pizza that he snags from a takeaway box. “‘Bout what? The dates? Who cares, make your own date. At least Matt isn’t off flirting with some other chick. Or dude,” he amends. He leans back against the counter and stuffs half of the slice in his mouth at once.

“No.” Lisa shakes her head and spears a forkful of salad. “Not the dates—the _suite_. Charlie and Dorothy—apparently they had some big heart-to-heart earlier and Lana offered them an overnight in the private suite as a reward. Said something about it being the “biggest test of chastity.” She snorts and chews. “Matt’s totally jealous. Said it should have been us, implied I wasn’t ‘connecting’ sincerely enough.” She laughs a little. “So ridiculous, right?”

Dean stares back at her, pizza abruptly forgotten. “Wait—we have a _private suite?_ And it’s like, a reward? That you can earn?” 

“Yeah,” Lisa says slowly, like Dean is stupid. He’s not, just incredulous that he might have lost out on the chance at getting Cas _in_ said private suite (to absolutely _not_ follow the rules) by sending him off with Hell-on-Stilettos. _If those two get a green light…_

Fuck his entire life. 

“I gotta go,” he says suddenly, abandoning his pizza in the sink and taking off towards the beach, where he knows production has a private table set up for Cas and Meg. Halfway there, Dean slows his roll and forces himself to come to a stop. 

“Ugh, what am I doing?” he asks aloud, slapping both palms across his face and wiggling his whole body around in abject frustration. “Arghhh,” he groans, before tearing his hands away and stomping back towards the bedroom where he does not pass go, does not collect $200. He beelines directly for the bed he usually shares with Cas, strips, and crawls under the covers, pulling them up over his head and tucking them in so that he can’t escape. 

It feels like days before the bedroom door creaks open again, followed by the sound of a familiar voice. “Dean?” Castiel calls out, and like the lovesick puppy he is, Dean immediately shoves the covers off and sits bolt upright.

“Hey!” he exclaims, way too excited, and quickly tries to reel himself back in. “I mean, uh… ‘Sup? How was dinner?”

Making his way across the room, Cas takes a seat next to Dean on the bed. He looks really good tonight, wearing a long-sleeved light blue button-down and khaki shorts with sandals. His hair is styled and he looks kinda fancy, but still relaxed. Dean hates himself for how much he likes it, how much he wishes that look were for him. 

“Dinner was interesting,” Cas says coyly. “Meg is…a character. I think it’s very clear that she was brought here to sow chaos, but nonetheless, I find her somewhat charming.” Dean’s heart sinks. “But she isn’t you.” Okay, now it’s in his throat. Cas looks up, pins Dean with his steely gaze. “We did speak, and we did make a connection. I had the opportunity to kiss her, and I declined.”

“You—why?” Dean asks dumbly, clutching at the bedsheets in his lap, almost afraid to hear the answer.

Cas laughs— _okay, not what Dean was expecting, but_ —and grabs Dean’s hand, shaking away the sheets it came tangled in. “Because of this,” he says simply. Still in disbelief, Dean can only alternate between staring at their hands and staring at Cas’ face. In his defense, it’s a very nice face. “Unless—” Castiel starts, but Dean cuts him off.

“I haven’t been moping in here all night because I don’t give a shit about you,” Dean says gruffly. He pauses, takes a deep breath, and squeezes Cas’ hand back. “Cas, I’m fuckin’ scared,” he admits. “I have all these new, crazy feelings, most of ‘em are about you. I want—I _really_ want to see where this goes. I could give a shit about anyone else here, but at the same time, _no_ part of me wants to corner you into something you aren’t ready for. Or like, keep you from exploring your own options.” 

When Dean looks up, he’s relieved to see Cas still looking back at him so damn softly. “It’s fast,” Castiel admits. “And nothing I came here looking for or expecting to find. But being with you, getting to know you—it feels right. More than anything has for me in a very long time. I have no idea how what’s between us might translate back in the “real world,” but if things continue this way, Dean, I’d like to find out.” 

His dorky air quotes make Dean smile even wider than he already is, enough that he _almost_ doesn’t hear their watches beeping, see the way they both light up green. “Holy shit,” Dean exclaims, as Lana chimes brightly from the other side of the room. 

“Congratulations,” she says. “You two have made genuine progress in your relationship. You have thirty seconds where the Retreat rules do not apply. Use them wisely.” 

No one has to tell them twice. Lana’s barely stopped talking before Cas is climbing into Dean’s lap, pressing their lips together hungrily. They make the most of their short reprieve, nipping at each other’s lips and sliding their tongues together. It’s a _relief_ for Dean, after this shit-show of an evening, and he clings to Cas’ hips, feels him up a little— _hey, it_ is _a free pass—_ and friggin’ _loves_ the way Cas grinds in his lap. 

When their thirty seconds are up and their watches fade to black, Dean parts from Cas reluctantly, Cas’ arms still wound tightly around his neck. 

Eyes half-closed and dreamy, Castiel smiles and touches Dean’s cheek. “Thank you, Lana,” he says, and it’s Dean’s turn to laugh. 

***

Dorothy and Charlie lose the group _sixteen thousand dollars_ in the private suite, or so Lana tells them at what’s quickly becoming a daily afternoon gathering next to the pool. Alicia and Cole lost them an additional three grand via their “date”, though whatever happened there seems to have cooled off just as quickly. 

Today, they’re sitting as far apart as humanly possible and Alicia is glaring at Cole like she wishes her eyes were daggers. Dean scoots a little closer to Cas, and ignores the way Meg is shooting _him_ the same look. 

The day’s workshops are split along gender-lines, which Dean thinks is pretty stupid, since all of them are pretty into bucking those kind of norms and expectations. _That’s TV,_ Rachel tells him with a shrug, before ushering Dean down into the courtyard for “Warrior’s Heart,” whatever the hell that is supposed to be.

Regardless of Dean’s feelings about it, the men-only activity goes on. It involves all of the boys first getting shirtless and then covering each other head-to-waist in mud. This part, Dean doesn’t so much get, but he can admit that it’s intimate, rubbing mud all over another person in that way. He’s just glad he’s paired with Cas. 

That grateful feeling fades quickly, though, when the second part of the activity involves coloring a canvas with words and pictures that describe their “heart’s deepest fears, your biggest barriers to success and fulfillment,” and then sharing them. 

In short, laying himself emotionally bare. Yeah, great, that’s fine—average Tuesday for Dean, not paralyzing him with cold waves of fear and anxiety at all.

He _must_ be growing as a person though, because despite that, Dean doesn’t shy away from the task. His poster-sized canvas includes words like, “fear of failure,” “disappointing Sam,” and “being rejected.” He colors a few symbols (like the Impala) that represent his father’s expectations for him, how he _knows_ his Dad wouldn’t approve of the way Dean lives now. Money worries. How his mother would be sad that Dean struggles to _let_ himself be happy. 

When he shares his picture with Cas, there’s none of the judgement or disdain Dean dreads seeing. Instead, there’s just Cas, reading carefully and with a furrowed brow, before swiftly pulling Dean in tight and holding him gently, soothing understanding hands over his mud-covered back. 

It’s unsurprising to Dean when he sees on Cas’ own poster little cartoon depictions of drugs, of money, of three identical stick-figure men, one on his knees. “Fear of letting my family down,” it reads. “Being no one.” “Being unhelpful, or a burden.” “Unworthy.” “Unloved.” “Broken.”

That last one breaks Dean’s heart.

“You’re not broken, and you’re not a burden, Cas,” Dean is quick to say in Cas’ ear while he wraps him up as tight as he can, trying to use sheer will to drive those feelings from Cas’ head. “Cas, you’re worthy,” he insists. “Your past, your mistakes—none of that is who you are, sweetheart. They don’t define you.” 

“You either,” Castiel murmurs back, sniffling roughly, and that hits Dean hard.

The guru leading their workshop helps hang each poster from some makeshift rafters and gives each participant a pike pole. After some loud, super-cliché screaming about how the posters are their “untruths to leave in the past,” they’re encouraged to charge Braveheart-style at their works and destroy them with the pointy ends of their sticks.

Dean _really_ likes that part, not that he’s admitting it to anyone. He also likes having Cas’ arms to walk into when they’re done. Cas is solace, he’s freedom. He _sees_ Dean and for some reason, he doesn’t turn away.

When the workshop is over, Dean, Cas, and all the other participants go charging full-speed into the ocean to wash off the clinging mud. From their lined-up lounge chairs on the beach, the girls watch and scream with delight and amusement, but they leave them to it. There’s lots of hugging and high-fives all around, and even Dean has to admit, he feels just a _little_ bit lighter as they walk back out onto the sand.

***


	5. Chapter 5

After the warrior workshop, Dean and Castiel learn from Lana that they’ve finally earned an “official” date. They’re told to wear swimsuits and to meet at the Jacuzzi at nine that evening. Dean gives a confessional interview that mostly consists of him wiggling his eyebrows at the camera suggestively, and then accepts Victor’s invite to lift some free weights down on the beach. 

Victor isn’t so bad, once you get past the money-focused exterior, and Dean can definitely see himself keeping in touch with the guy down the road. They’d probably have an awesome time bar-hopping together. Somewhat belatedly, Dean realizes he doesn’t even know where Victor is from, if hanging out with him on a weekend would even be possible.

Even _more_ belatedly, Dean realizes he doesn’t know where _Cas_ is fucking from. How could they have gone this long and had the kind of conversations they’ve had without even _touching_ on that? As Dean starts another rep cycle, working in with the ten-pound weights he’s sharing with Vic, he’s stunned. He really doesn’t know where Cas _lives_ and Cas hasn’t asked about him, either _._ Maybe this is a function of each of their subconscious trying to protect them from facing a shitty reality where they both have lives and families and a thousand miles in between them. 

By the time Victor calls it a day on exercising, Dean’s brain is filled with worry, no longer looking forward to their date because he _knows_ he has to ask Cas where he’s from. Whatever happens after that, things will never be the same. Once that info is out there, it’ll be that much harder to pretend, to enjoy whatever time they have left here together. 

Depressed, Dean avoids Cas until then. He takes a ridiculously long shower and then hunts down Charlie to grab dinner and play cards in a patch of shade in the courtyard. He keeps quiet about his fears even to her, knowing that Charlie is just going to reiterate what Dean already knows—that all he can do is find out the truth and go from there.

Still, it haunts Dean. Cas has _family,_ real family. _Triplet_ brothers who saved his life! No way is he going to pack up and leave all of that behind for a do-nothing mechanic like Dean, just because they had some good times and a killer spark on what amounts to a glorified vacation. 

And Dean— _Dean_ has Bobby and the shop, and his debts. He _owes_ Bobby, can’t just abandon him to follow some crazy romance across the country on a whim. The worst part of _that_ is knowing Bobby would let him, would tell him to fuckin’ go. Not just Bobby, but Jo, Jo’s mom Ellen who’s always been like a mother to Dean—they’d all understand. They’d want him to be happy. 

All the more reason why Dean can’t do that to them.

 _Time to face the music,_ he thinks, when the sun has gone down and it’s fully dark, so much so that he and Charlie can barely make out the shapes on the cards in their hands anymore. While they’re packing up, Rachel appears on the portico and taps her wrist. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean calls back morosely, and she raises her eyebrows. It’s true that Dean was beyond excited for this earlier, no wonder she’s confused. Whatever, they’re going to find out why his mood has changed soon enough.

To be fair, the hot tub looks inviting as hell. The producers have cleared the other members of the cast away from the immediate area, which is nice. Although, Dean can see some of them gathering by the fire pit down at the beach, chairs arranged on the ocean side and facing the pool so that they can creep on his date. That’s kind of amusing, and no weirder or more intrusive than the camera guy crouching on the far side of the tub, or the microphones strung around his and Cas’ necks. 

Cas shows up right after him, making his presence known by sliding arms around Dean’s bare middle, his shirt already off and slung over a nearby chair. “Heya, Cas,” Dean says, turning in Cas’ arms and just barely resisting pecking him on the lips in greeting. He rubs their noses together instead, and Cas’ face scrunches up happily.

“Hello, Dean. This looks very nice,” he says, motioning to their set up. There’s champagne chilling on ice, as well as platters of fruit and chocolates laid out on the tiled extension off of the back of the tub. “Shall we?” 

It’s a good night for a dip in the hot tub, cooler than Dean’s experienced it being here as of yet. Maybe mid-to-high sixties, if he had to guess, and with a solid breeze. The hair on his arms prickles and Dean eyes the fluffy robes someone has left out for them to use after with appreciation. 

Cas watches as Dean steps into the warm, bubbly water and sinks down, his bottom lip drawing in between his teeth the way that Dean has learned it does when Cas is having dirty thoughts. “See something you like?” he asks cheekily, mirroring the action when Castiel slides closer to him on the underwater bench. 

“Always,” Castiel replies easily. Dean admires Cas’ openness, how free he is with his thoughts and desires. He could learn a lesson or two from that, might even be better off for it. 

_Hell,_ Dean thinks. _No time like the present._ He takes a deep breath and swishes his hands around underneath the frothing water.

“What’s wrong?” Castiel asks, the smile dropping from his face. His body language closes off slightly—protectively, and Dean rushes to reassure him, as much as he can.

“It’s not like that,” he says quickly, lifting a dripping hand to scratch at the back of his neck. “It’s just—Vic and I were talking earlier, and I realized I don’t even know where you’re from. We never…” Dean trails off a little helplessly and shrugs. “Had me all up in my feelings, ‘bout how you probably live two thousand miles away and maybe because of that, our relationship might…have an expiration date that it otherwise wouldn’t. Say if we met in a bar, or something.” 

To Dean’s shock, Castiel responds with a burst of laughter. Dean’s head snaps up, incredulous and maybe a little irritated at the reaction. “Dude,” Dean says, offended, but Castiel waves him off and slides closer, slinging his legs over Dean’s thighs and wrapping arms around his neck. 

“You didn’t know,” he says, his tone full of surprise and awe.

“Uh…” 

Castiel laughs again. It’s not mocking, but Dean’s definitely not following, either. “You didn’t know,” he exclaims, slapping Dean’s chest in excitement, leaving a wet approximation of a handprint behind. 

“Yeah, Cas, we’ve established that I don’t know whatever it is you know. Care to clue me in?”

In his arms, Cas darts a glance over Dean’s shoulder, presumably at whatever producer is hovering just out of sight of the cameras, before re-focusing on Dean. “I assumed they told us all the same information,” Castiel says coyly, circling a finger around Dean’s nipple and making him shiver. “When Dorothy and I were waiting to be brought over, we received basic info on all of you. Nothing overtly revealing—both Dorothy and I assumed it was to lessen our disadvantage for being newcomers. But then we arrived here and you all had barely met. It would appear, in retrospect, that we were manipulated.”

Confused, Dean catches Castiel’s hand as it begins to lazily travel south. “Hold up—what are you saying? You know where I’m from?” 

His smile stretching further, Castiel nods. “You live in Lebanon, Kansas. Two hours and forty-five minutes northwest of a small town outside of Lawrence called Alma, where I live with one of my two brothers.” 

The information takes a minute to fully process in Dean’s head, and then he’s yelping for joy, reflexively leaning in to kiss Castiel and only remembering not to at the very last second. He tackles him down onto the bench seat instead, getting them both soaked and pushing Castiel under. Cas surfaces, beaming, and wipes the water from Dean’s face with his hand, which is totally ineffective.

“Shut the f—I grew _up_ in Lawrence. What are the chances? But wait,” Dean says, sitting back just slightly. “Does this—is that the only reason you talked to me?”

“No, assbutt,” Castiel replies, splashing him admonishingly. “You drew my eye from the moment I stepped off of that boat. I only had your name and information, not your picture. I was looking for Dean Winchester, yes, but I had no idea who you were until you told me. And by then—” Castiel leans in, way too close, skating his lips teasingly close to Dean’s. “—I was done for.” 

“Just like that, huh?” Dean murmurs, brushing the tips of their noses together.

“Just like that.” 

Dean pauses, glancing hopefully down at his wristwatch, but it’s dark. “Damn it, Lana, we’re connecting left and right over here. Throw us a bone. Or let one of us throw the other a bone, either way. I’m not picky.” 

“That was terrible,” Castiel remarks, but he’s chuckling. There’s a moment of silence, and then, “Dean? Forgive me for being too forward, but does this mean you’d like to continue this—whatever is between us—once we return home?” 

It’s a _big_ question, and one that Dean should fear answering on camera, especially since the way Cas asked, he didn’t give any of his own intentions away. Dean could still end up heartbroken and humiliated here, but somehow, he doesn’t think that will be the case. Anyway, he spent all afternoon moping about the possibility that he’d never even see Cas again after filming, so he’d be pretty damn stupid not to ride this wave.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “If you would.” 

Cas’ smile can’t lie. “I really would,” he replies.

There’s no doubt in Dean’s mind that they would have kissed (and with zero regrets), if Lana hadn’t chimed in _right_ at that very moment. 

“Castiel and Dean,” she says, the lights on her cone a bright orange tonight. “I have noticed that over the past few days, neither of you has been tempted by any of the other players or to break the rules with each other. You have made genuine progress in your relationship, and are deserving of a reward. The private suite is yours for the night. Use it as a means to take your relationship to the next level, and don’t break the rules.” 

Dean and Castiel exchange gleeful looks. “Can we take the snacks?” Dean asks, pointing to the untouched champagne, fruit, and dessert platters next to the tub. 

Hey, priorities.

***

The rundown he and Cas get from Rachel regarding the private suite is not what Dean is expecting. By the time she stops talking, he’s fully convinced that the show’s entire premise of “making them better people” is a total farce, and that the producers want nothing more than for either Dean or Cas to bend over for the other tonight. 

That’s fine—that’s pretty much what he wants, too. 

The snacks do come with, and one of the PAs is nice enough to pop the champagne and pour it out before he leaves. Rachel gives them the nickel tour, pointing out drawers full of various types of protection, lube, and even toys (brand-new-in-box, Dean’s relieved to see). There’s a soaking tub almost as big as the Jacuzzi he and Cas just left, a rain shower, and an _enormous_ bed with an incredible mattress. 

She also tells them that they’ll only be “charged” by Lana for the _worst_ offense committed tonight. Meaning, if they have sex, the cost of that will be the only thing deducted, not the kissing before or after, or the handjobs or oral leading up to it. Rachel is stoic and blunt while she details these things, and Dean mostly tries not to let his mouth hang open in shock. Far as he’s concerned, this room is basically a free-fuckin’-pass, and he intends to make the most of it.

The producers know they’re on board, that they don’t have to be manipulated into giving it up in the private suite. Yet, they’re still encouraged by Rachel to play the game, to ensure plenty of moments are filmed where they appear hesitant to make contact with each other, where it looks like they’re torn about what to do. 

_Sure, sure,_ Dean says, hustling Rachel out the door and slamming it shut behind her before realizing that here, absolutely nothing comes _that_ easily.

On the one hand, no camera person will be joining them overnight. On the other, before they can be left alone, a staged “entrance” has to be recorded. One where Dean and Cas walk into the room and act surprised and thrilled while running around “discovering” all the things Rachel already pointed out. They oblige and film that mess in one take, and Dean thinks he’s pretty damn convincing, barely even looking at the camera lens more than once. Okay, three times max. Whatever, he’s going to be _alone_ with Cas. 

Well, as alone as they can be with cameras mounted in multiple corners of both rooms, but who’s counting?!

Once every last member of the crew is finally gone, there’s a moment where Dean and Cas just stare at each other, unsure of what to do. Dean’s pretty sure they’re on the same page, but maybe Cas _does_ want to be good. Maybe he’s gotten really into following the rules, is looking at it like a personal challenge, or whatever. Dean can get behind that, too, if that’s the case. Hey, Lana’s rules have done a lot for him so far, no one can deny that.

“Cas,” he says carefully, one hand out, like Cas is some kind of spooked cat that’s gonna bolt if Dean gets too close too quickly. It’s not the worst analogy, Dean’s sure seen him seek out patches of sun like a cat. Oh, and the way he contorts himself doing yoga in the mornings—

“What?” Castiel replies, and only then does Dean realize he’s zoned out, caught up imagining Cas in various poses and all the ways he could insert himself into each one. Might be time to admit that the self-deprivation is getting to him. 

_Or_ he could keep on doing what he’s doing, because now Cas is pulling himself up onto the bed and crossing his legs into that “hip-opening pose” he’s so fond of and—

“You’ve got a little, uh—” Castiel mimes wiping drool from the corner of his mouth with a poorly-concealed smirk. 

“And here I was trying to be considerate,” Dean replies with a snort, crossing his arms and swaying back and forth where he stands. “Being _thoughtful_ towards your dirty little sex addiction and recent recovery. Wouldn’t wanna knock you off the wagon or anything.” He punctuates his mockery by stripping off the robe he put on when they exited the hot tub, as Castiel shakes his head up at him, eyes crinkling in amusement.

“You are very lucky you’re so attractive,” he says. 

“I was only half-being a dick, you know,” Dean offers, standing in front of Castiel and working his hands under Cas’ own robe. “Was serious about the part where I don’t wanna do anything you don’t wanna do. For any reason. Happy to just be alone with you for a while. And, you know, to share a bed that one of us isn’t falling half-off of all night long.”

“This mattress is very comfortable,” Cas agrees, patting it appreciatively. “I wouldn’t mind a bath either. I know we were just—” He waves in the general direction of the outside hot tub. “—but we weren’t alone.” He scoots off of the bed, letting his robe drop alongside Dean’s to puddle on the floor, his swimsuit following right after. Cas steps out of it and keeps walking with ease, like that display wasn’t the the _single_ hottest thing Dean’s stood by and watched someone do. Like Cas doesn’t have one _the best_ asses Dean’s ever seen walking away, period.

He scurries after him like his feet are on fire, entering the bathroom to find Cas already making himself comfortable in the tub as the water sprays down on top of him, faucet going full blast. He looks _damn_ good like that and he knows it, the cocky bastard. Arms slung over the sides of the marble, legs splayed wide, goddamn bedroom eyes laser-focused on Dean as he strides through the door.

“Come here,” Cas says, and Dean doesn’t need to be told twice. Already naked, he steps over the edge of the tub and seats himself directly in Castiel’s lap. The cascading water from the tap pours down his back, hot and relaxing, and Dean adjusts himself so that he’s comfortable. Cas’ arms wrap around his waist and his own hands slide up and down Cas’ toned chest, just enjoying the feel of him, the luxurious idea that they can _have_ this. 

What they’re doing _is technically_ off-limits, but it’s also almost to be expected. Friggin’ Charlie and Dorothy spent sixteen k during their one-night stay here, which Dean is _fairly_ sure translates out to mean “mutual tongue stuff”. 

Anyway, he’s long past caring about money. He and Cas have done the work. They’ve shared, they’ve bonded, they’ve grown as people. In Dean’s opinion, they’ve earned the opportunity to get physical, to see if they’re compatible, and to grow their physical bond, too. 

He says so out loud. 

“I agree,” Castiel tells him, when Dean’s finished more or less pleading his case. The tub is nearly full around them by this point, and Dean slides off of Castiel’s thighs to curl up at his side. They don’t have nearly as much room here as they did in the outdoor Jacuzzi, but Dean’s enjoying the peace and solitude of the private space much more. He aimlessly tips a bath bomb out from a basket on the ledge, letting it splash into the water just above their knees. They both watch it fizz and turn the water a foamy peachy color. Smells like peach, too. 

“We should have sex,” Castiel suggests casually. 

“Yeah? You think so?” 

“I do.” 

“Well, we’re on the same page, then.” Dean’s quiet for a moment, and then anxiously adds, “Should we—?” In response, Castiel laughs, low and dark, before reaching out to grab a loofah and some body wash from the same ledge as the bath bombs. He lathers up the loofah before hooking an arm around Dean’s ribs and hauling him over into his lap, this time back-to-chest. 

“Whoa, hey!” Dean flounders, splashing water everywhere and sloshing a good amount onto the floor as he copes with being manhandled. 

_Not_ that he dislikes it or anything, which Castiel seems to know, smiling into the skin of his neck before pressing several reassuring kisses there. “Just relax,” he says, encouraging Dean to rest his head back on his shoulder and stop fussing. Cas’ legs bracket Dean’s hips, squeezing slightly in a way that _can’t_ be anything but a promise.

When Dean does chill out and settle down, Castiel rewards him by using the loofah to soap him up. He runs the scratchy sponge all over Dean’s arms, across his chest and stomach, and as far down each leg as he can reach. He cleans around his groin perfunctorily, and resists Dean’s wiggling attempts to make him take things further. 

He pushes Dean forward a little and scrubs his back thoroughly while Dean hugs his own legs, even venturing down into his crack, the tease. Cas even pauses to knead Dean’s shoulders for a bit, and then works on the knot he always has jacking up the base of his spine. 

“Do you do this with all your orgy partners?” Dean mumbles softly from where his head is resting on his knees, his eyelids heavy from the pure bliss of being touched with such unassuming care and affection. 

“No,” Castiel denies firmly, though his tone carries a note of amusement. “Just those I know I’d like to have in my bed again.” 

“Aww, Cas, you flirtin’ with me? You should know, I’m not that kind of girl.” 

“Which kind?” Cas replies quietly, his lips skating lightly over several vertebrae in Dean’s back. “The kind that comes back?” 

Suddenly wide awake, Dean leans back, tipping his head up and forcing Castiel to readjust how he’s sitting so that he can look into his eyes. It’s a bit of an awkward angle, but the water lets Dean slide to the side and be buoyed a little more easily. “I wasn’t,” he answers seriously. “Before all this, I didn’t know how to be better than that. Didn’t see a reason to.” 

“And now?” 

_God,_ this conversation would be so cheesy, so ridiculous if he were having it with _anyone_ else. This kind of shit belongs on _Dr Sexy_ reruns, not in Dean’s very real life. But the reality is, there’s not a damn thing about Cas that’s insincere. He’s not asking because he’s trying to create some kind of desperate, romantic moment or because he’s hoping the clip will go viral and make him internet famous.

No, Dean’s pretty friggin’ sure Cas just wants to know if this is real. And Dean would be lying if he said he didn’t have the same damn question, so answering it isn’t hard at all. 

“Can’t wait to come back to you, Cas,” he says simply, wet limbs slipping against Cas’ equally slick skin as Dean gropes for something that his nervous hands can hold onto. “Not to scare you or anything, and not that I’m not looking forward to getting you into bed, but you did ask, so… Here’s my answer.” Dean stops to take a deep breath, holding Cas’ eye contact bravely, even if his voice shakes a little.

“Cas, our ‘what comes next’ has me excited in a way nothing in my life ever did before. I got…not much to offer you, back home. But whatever I do have, if you wanted to share it? Shit, Cas. I can’t think of anything— _anything—_ on the damn planet that would make me happier. My whole apartment is about the size of this suite, but when I think about you in it? Damn.”

Dean shakes his head. “I think about you sitting on my couch when I get home from work, TV on and Chinese takeout from the place down the block on the table. I think about you maybe washing up in my shower, using my shampoo. I think about you doing yoga in the patch of sunlight in my living room under the bay window in the morning. I think about you waking up next to me, maybe stealing a pair of my sweatpants from the drawer before going to put some coffee on. I think about _you,_ in my space, and—and I can’t put into words how much I want it, how much that means to me.”

There’s a long, heavy moment of silence where Dean’s stomach ties itself into a tight knot and dual waves of horror and humiliation begin to rise in his body, but then Castiel blinks hard, and twin tears track down each of his cheeks. 

“ _Dean,”_ he whispers, pulling his hands from the water to frame Dean’s face and kiss him hard. “Yes, please,” is all Cas manages to say between presses of lips and swipes of tongue, but Dean’s never felt so relieved in his life. 

And truthfully, he doesn’t want to fuckin’ talk. He said what he needed to say—so long as Cas feels the same, Dean doesn’t need a big damn flowery speech. He should have known that Cas talks with his body, though, that he’s used to using sex to communicate, that he _likes_ it that way, Lana be damned. 

“Will you fuck me?” Cas asks, near-panting into Dean’s mouth, barely wanting to pull away enough to ask the question. Dean can feel his breath hot on his lips, and Cas’ hands are both still cupping his face. 

“‘Course, Cas,” Dean replies with a little nod, stealing short kisses in between his replies. “If that’s what you want.”

“I want it all,” Cas says, eyes dark, blue barely even visible under his half-opened lids. Dean’s never seen him so lust-drunk, so carried away, and he has a sudden, fierce urge to take care of him, to show Cas that he’s both wanted and worthy. _This_ is what the Retreat took away from them, and Dean’s quickly realizing that while that had to be done to get them here, it’s equally important to take back.

“Let’s have it all, then,” Dean suggests, sitting up and turning to face Castiel more fully, since his neck is starting to hurt. The water sloshes around them in the tub, slapping at the walls in violent, pink-frothed waves. “Really get our money’s worth. Hey, if we’re only getting charged for one thing, might as well do it up right.”

Castiel’s brow furrows as he takes in what Dean’s saying, and then his face lights up. “Flip fuck?”

“Why not?” Dean agrees with a shrug. 

“Why not, indeed,” Castiel replies, a devious smirk spreading across his face. “Race you to the shower.” Before Dean can so much as blink, Cas is hitting the drain for the tub and hopping out, skidding dangerously on wet feet to grab lube from one of the drawers in the vanity Rachel pointed out earlier. He’s got the shower on and is under the spray before Dean even gets one foot firmly onto the shag carpet next to the bath. 

“I love this idea,” Cas calls to him over the running water. “You’re brilliant. Beauty and brains, what are the odds?” 

“If you think that’s impressive, you should see me order parts for vintage cars,” Dean tells him. He slips into the shower behind Cas and making at least a token attempt to pretend he’s going to wash his hair or something. “Lots of fancy-sounding names, have to know all kinds of part numbers off the top of your head. _Very_ sexy.” 

Castiel grins up at him before pulling him close and into another stupid-hot kiss. Cas _knows_ how to kiss, is so good at it Dean honestly wouldn’t mind if that was all they could do tonight. He sinks into Cas’ warm embrace, wishes he could tell Cas how much he likes kissing him without sounding like a tool. It’s perfect—just enough tongue licking against his own, the perfect blend of nipping and sucking and lingering presses that take Dean’s breath away.

“Yeah, Cas,” is what makes it out of his mouth, breathless and goofy, but Dean supposes it’s better than nothing.

The heat between them escalates quickly now that they have a known destination, all worry about the rules and what they should or shouldn’t be doing to break them left completely behind. It’s new and it’s exciting, and Dean kind of feels like a teenager stumbling into his first time. Thing is, Dean has felt Cas hard in his pants plenty of times and even while lying next to him in bed, but it’s different like this.

Now, there’s nothing between them save for water and friction, and no one to stop them or get in their way.

“ _Cas,"_ Dean groans, “Cas, I can’t believe—”

“I know,” Cas replies, pulling back from where he’s been mouthing at Dean’s jaw to blink up at him warmly, eyes bright. It makes Dean feel a little less silly for being sappy and overly enthusiastic about this whole thing himself. Makes him war with dueling impulses to either shove Cas down and ravage him right there, or spread him out and take his time delicately discovering every last inch of skin. 

A happy compromise, maybe, which Cas essentially makes for him when he dives back in to continue their make-out session. This time, it’s with his long, capable fingers wrapped determinedly around Dean’s cock and stroking.

“I like the way you feel in my hand,” Cas purrs. “I knew that I would.” 

The height difference between them is perfect. Those two inches Dean has on Cas give him _just_ the smallest bit of leverage he needs to really slot their bodies together when he gets Cas backed up against the tile. Cas seems to dig it too, from the way he holds onto the back of Dean’s neck and grinds up against him, little grunts of satisfaction escaping from his lips as he rocks his hips. He’s fluid, and graceful—everything Dean fantasized he would be.

Dean is intoxicated by him. 

The kisses he sucks from Cas’ face and shoulders, over his sharp jaw and down his neck, taste of water and Cas’ clean skin. The stubble on Cas’ face burns Dean’s cheeks, and he can’t wait to feel it on the sensitive skin of his thighs. Can’t wait to feel Cas for _days,_ long after this night is over. 

And still, he thinks: it’s just sex, isn’t it? It’s just two bodies rubbing together. Flesh and blood and muscle and bone; different shapes and sizes and some with varying parts, but all more or less the same in the dark. 

Dean has done this more times than he likes to admit anymore; been with hundreds of people on hundreds of different nights, mornings, afternoons. In bar bathrooms and on soft beds, under the spray of showers and on couches and hardwood floors and splayed over kitchen counters. Men, women, people who didn’t identify as either—Dean’s never been picky, has seen and been with, kissed, licked, and fucked it all. 

So touching Cas _should_ be like all those other times, each and every one of those experiences. Cas is a man, he has a body, a dick like Dean’s. Sensitive spots just beneath his ear and around his hip bones that make him shudder when someone caresses or tongues at the skin there. Blood pumping through his veins, making him hard, driving him to get _off,_ to get off with _Dean_.

It’s not, though—it’s not the same, and Dean already knew that, should have expected it, but he didn’t. It takes him by surprise, the emotion he feels being curled into Cas’ arms, the way he bends and breaks having _Cas_ wrapped up in _his_. The _pull_ between their bodies, the _need_ to get and stay as close to Castiel as possible, to kiss and consume, to _show him_ what being genuinely wanted is like. 

Dean’s been aroused, he’s been _hungry_ many, many times in his life. 

It’s never been like this.

The way that he can’t wait to see what Cas does next, how Cas’ sweet touches are equally as enticing and coveted as his dirty ones. The realization that if Cas wanted to, Dean really would have _no_ problem stopping, would be content just to hold and kiss the guy and enjoy being near him for the rest of the night.

That’s such a shocking discovery in his own mind that Dean almost stops the proceedings just to share it, though he manages to pull those reigns in at the last second. Instead of interrupting, he throws himself wholeheartedly into relishing every minute with Cas. Who knows if they’ll have another chance like this before their time at the Retreat is over?

While Dean’s busy having epiphanies, Cas is hard at work too, slicking his fingers up with lube and teasing their way in between Dean’s cheeks. Brought back into the moment by Cas’ finger finding its way into his ass, Dean follows suit. He kisses Cas hard under the spray of the shower as he squeezes one of Cas’ cheeks, working a finger of his own into Cas’ hole. 

The action drives Cas to grind harder against him with a particularly wanton moan that Dean is all too happy to swallow.

“More,” Cas demands.

Dean nods, chases Cas’ open mouth moving against his own. “Me too,” he says, spreading his feet a little wider, and Cas adds a second finger to his ministrations without hesitation. 

For all the things Dean has done, he hasn’t done _this,_ hasn’t been with that many men who were all that interested in switching. The “get in, get off, get gone” crowd didn’t tend to be one for explicit communication, more just stereotypes that no one questioned translating over into the bedroom. 

And that’s always been fine with Dean—he’ll bend over or bend someone over, no problem, but _this—_ Cas is already blasting all of his “norms” for sex right out of the water. 

They make out like that for a while, gripped tight in each other’s arms, cocks barely with room to slide together. Eventually, with three of Cas’ thick fingers working inside him, Dean deems himself ready. He really fucking wants to get a better angle than this for both of their sakes—the prostate stimulation has been nothing but a tease for either of them. 

He crooks a finger anyway, right before pulling out of Cas, making him shiver and bite petulantly at Dean’s collarbone. 

“Good?” he murmurs and Cas just nods against his throat, humming softly. “Bed?”

“Please, Dean.” 

Out of the shower, Dean runs one of the super-soft towels over his body quickly before tossing it in Castiel’s face. He watches with delight (and a still-hard cock sticking comically out in front of him) as Cas catches it and proceeds to rub at his hair like he has all the time in the world. Impatient, Dean grabs another towel and pats Cas’ body down before shoving him out the bathroom door and towards the bed. 

Castiel laughs, throaty and deep like always, but he only stops to grab lube and a strip of condoms from the bedside table before crawling up onto the mattress readily. His tan skin against the white of the covers looks terribly tempting, only becoming more so as Cas settles down onto his hands and knees. As Dean trails behind, his jaw falls open to see Cas arch his back like he does so often on his yoga mat, sticking his ass out, inviting. 

“Come on, Dean,” he implores, rocking back and forth a little in his impatience. “I’ve wanted this— _needed_ it—for days now.” Dean pauses, and as if Castiel can read his mind, he adds, “From _you,_ not just—”

“Yeah,” Dean says, exhaling forcefully and grabbing the condom strip to tear one off. He rolls it on, slicks himself up and gets behind Cas, drizzling some of the lube right onto Cas’ exposed hole. 

His only hesitation is something stupid—Dean _wishes_ they could do this face-to-face, but at the same time, maybe he doesn’t. Cas would see the emotion he feels for sure, then—maybe it would ruin the mood.

Slowly, Dean lets the head of his cock press against Cas’ tight, wet ring of muscle, feels the way Cas intentionally relaxes and goes pliant beneath him as Dean pushes in. If there’s any discomfort, Cas doesn’t act like it. He just moans and impales himself all the way onto Dean’s cock—before Dean can have any say in the matter—tosses his head back and demands Dean to go _harder, faster, Dean, please._

Dean does his best to comply, to be in charge, to give Cas what he wants, but Cas is wild in his arms, clearly the one running the show. He pulls his leg forward to give Dean a better angle to hit his prostate. Unsatisfied, he ends up shoving himself upright so that he’s sitting in Dean’s lap, riding him with arms stretched back to wrap around Dean’s head for leverage or grip, or _fuck,_ Dean has no idea. 

It’s the hottest fucking thing he’s ever experienced, though, his chin on Cas’ shoulder and Cas’ hands in his hair, and Dean is more than happy to just let Cas take what he wants. More than happy to just hold him in his arms, smell his clean skin and the musk of his arousal. To dig his nose into the crook of Cas’ neck, rub his face in his damp hair, to just feel the weight and strength of his body gyrating in Dean’s lap. 

Dean’s orgasm sneaks up on him, moving swiftly from a dull, distant roar of thunder to a freight train barreling down the tracks and he comes biting Castiel’s shoulder and digging nails into his pecs from where his arms are wrapped around Cas’ chest. 

“I could come like this, Dean,” Castiel pants as he circles his hips on Dean’s softening cock, but he doesn’t.

When it’s over, Dean snaps the condom off and tosses it over his shoulder before flopping bonelessly onto the bed. Meanwhile, Cas just climbs off of him like that was round-fucking-one and he’s ready for as many as it takes. As Dean watches blearily, Cas searches out the condoms and selects one for himself, raring to go and hard as a rock.

Dean, on the other hand, would be three-count and out, if this were a wrestling match.

Thankfully, it’s not, and Cas’ pleased, wholly entertained grin as he clamors over Dean’s body says he’s got no problem at all continuing to do most of the work here. Dean will have to make this up to him sometime in the future, but in his defense, Cas is _really_ damn good at what he does. Before Dean can really even process what’s happening, Cas has both of Dean’s thighs in his hands and is pushing them back towards his chest as his cock presses inside.

Deflated dick notwithstanding, Dean’s eyes still end up rolling back in his head, his breath coming short as Castiel fucks him mercilessly. He’s dabbled in some post-orgasm prostate stimulation in the past, but this is like—Dean’s sight blurs and his thoughts go jumbled as Castiel nails that sensitive spot inside of him on repeat, making him shake and quiver and holler at the top of his lungs until his sad cock blurts a _little_ more milky fluid out onto his stomach. 

“That’s all I got, _please_ , Cas, please,” Dean moans, and from somewhere far away, he hears Castiel chuckle and change up his own pace. He shifts the angle just slightly, sliding a hand under Dean’s head instead of his thigh and leaning down so that Dean’s forced to make eye contact with him. Castiel fucks him slow and deep, seemingly uninterested in chasing his own climax, and Dean meets his gaze with what he’s _sure_ are unfocused, hazy eyes. 

Overstimulated and ridiculously full, Dean licks his lips, and Cas watches the motion like it’s the sexiest thing he can imagine, like it’s a _tease,_ like he isn’t currently already balls deep in Dean. 

“You’re something else,” Dean says roughly, trying hard to ignore the way Cas is still rocking against his _very_ sensitive cock. “Don’t you want to…?”

“I will,” Castiel assures him, easy and with as much control as if they were taking an afternoon stroll in the park. _That would be some park._ “This is—” He dips his head, mouthing at the hollow of Dean’s throat and leaning on his own elbow for balance. “I haven’t enjoyed someone like this in a very long time. I—I _truly_ adore being with you, Dean.” 

The space behind Dean’s eyes burns a little at that unexpected admission, so he does the only thing he can think of—he clenches the muscles in his ass and locks his ankles at the small of Castiel’s back.

His trick has the desired effect, Cas melting into his body, finally allowing his own orgasm to crescendo and wash over him. Dean watches with fascination at the way Cas’ eyes blink closed, the way his mouth drops open slightly, the way his whole body seems as if it _knows_ Dean’s and is meant to be like this, with him, forever. 

He catches Cas’ lips as soon as he can, kisses him through it, flips them both over and presses Cas into the bed once he starts to come down. When his lashes flutter open again, Cas looks so relaxed he could be drugged, but he turns those eyes on Dean and smiles, bright and lazy.

“Worth every penny,” he declares, and it’s Dean’s turn to laugh, because he couldn’t agree more. 

***


	6. Chapter 6

They catch hell for it. The price of their indiscretion is steep: twenty thousand dollars and the shame of knowing they’re the only ones at the Retreat who have gone “all the way” and actually had penetrative sex. It’s a damn good thing their castmates _don’t_ know that they deserve to lose at least _twice_ what Lana ends up charging them—but Dean’s not about to volunteer that info, no way. 

It’s not as if they’re the only offenders, though. At this point, everyone’s messed up a time or two (except for Victor, whose refusal to even test the waters lost him Alicia’s attentions for good), but this is different. While Castiel and Dean both stand steadfastly by their decision to have sex and decidedly have _no_ regrets, they can also understand why everyone else is pissed. 

They can’t take it back, though, so all they can do is focus on the positive. For Dean, he feels closer to Castiel than ever, and from everything he can see (and all the increasingly sappy shit Castiel has been saying), that feeling is mutual. 

Dean’s not ready to call it “love,” whatever the fuck “ _l_ _ove_ ” is, but there are definitely some strong emotions brewing inside his heart, previously assumed to be a dried-up walnut. Their presence both shocks and terrifies Dean, though the second thing less and less so as time goes on. 

They settle into a new sort of routine, one that Dean likes so much he can hardly imagine giving it up to return to his boring life in Kansas. In the mornings, Dean joins Castiel for yoga, most often on the beach with the sand between their toes, and frequently while watching the sunrise. Cas always meditates for a while when they’re done, and Dean uses that time to wander up to the kitchen to grab them coffee and breakfast.

The rest of their days are a mix of whatever “workshop” or “emotional growth activity” Lana has scheduled for the day, plus napping, swimming, confessionals, and just hanging out. Lunch is almost always a group activity, one that frequently devolves into some kind of immature pissing contest or water-based competition. In the afternoons, Dean makes it a point to fit in a weight session with Victor and a card game with Charlie. Most evenings, Cas and Dean eat dinner just the two of them, but not always. 

Most importantly, every single night, when all is said and done, they curl up in their shared bed and fall asleep in each other’s arms.

The producers continue to push their buttons, but as time goes on it becomes easier for both Dean and Cas to recognize those moments for what they are (and to not allow themselves to be baited). For the most part, they’re well-behaved. Even though Lana doesn’t give them any further “green lights,” and going several days in a row without so much as kissing Cas is basically torture, Dean tries— _hard_. 

Neither of them is perfect, though, so another week and a half after their night in the suite sees them losing the group another nine grand total. Three ( _awesome,_ worth every penny) kisses (and a minor grope session Lana apparently let slide, since no one got off) later, Dean is starting to really feel the itch. Secretly, he’s kind of glad Lana hasn’t deemed them worthy of a repeat performance in the suite—there’s just no chance he’s reformed himself enough to pass _that_ test.

Just to spite him (probably), Doctor Matt and Lisa do it easily, without losing the group even a single dollar during their overnight in “paradise”. Inside his own head, Dean privately decides their relationship sucks. 

In any case, if the way Cas has been increasingly touchy-feeling, pushing the boundaries of the rules under their shared covers at night is any clue, Dean’s not the only one riding the struggle bus. 

As a result, the final test Lana drops into their laps seems torturously fitting. These asshole producers must be working right out of the, “If you can’t beat ‘em, bribe ‘em,” playbook, because _this_ particular battle of wills he and Cas are being forced into is downright cruel.

It starts out like any other Lana-announcement, with the crew herding Dean, Cas, and all of their castmates up under the portico next to the pool. Tonight, they were instructed to all wear white, and the producers rile them all up with alcohol and music before getting down to business. It’s clear they’re trying to film a party scene, and everyone is only too happy to oblige. Dean finds himself wedged in the middle of a Charlie and Cas terrible-dancing-sandwich, and with the warm breeze and a drink in his hand, this is about as happy as he’s ever been.

Amidst all the grinding and making fools of themselves, Lana suddenly chimes and lights up. Purple today, just like their first day at the Retreat, before they even knew what they were all getting into.

“Hello, everyone,” Lana says, and there’s a reflexive chorus of reply greetings as the cast moves to relocate down onto the sofa and loveseats. They’re all so well-trained these days, the producers don’t even need to prompt them. 

Knowing that he and Cas haven’t done anything even remotely approaching a rule-break within the last twenty-four hours, Dean lets his mind drift as Lana makes a few announcements. It’s the evening before their last night at the Retreat, and they’re all expecting some sort of pre-emptive _something_ in preparation for Lana announcing the winner (or winners) of whatever is left of the prize pot tomorrow during the day. 

What Dean is _not_ expecting is for Cole and Meg to be unceremoniously drop-kicked off the island for what Lana describes as “insufficient progress.” It’s not exactly surprising—neither of them gave any kind of crap about the rules from the moment they arrived, and it showed. Neither of them made any “meaningful connections,” either—not even friends, really.

Well, save for Cas and Meg, who have some kind of weird synchronous dynamic that Dean _hates_ but can’t say a damn word about unless he wants to paint himself as the jealous wife. Bottom line: Dean’s not sad to see either of them go, especially when Cole punctuates his exit by giving them all double middle fingers and Meg has the audacity to try and kiss Cas on the cheek. 

Friend or not, even Cas has his limits.

“Rules,” Cas says sharply, leaning dramatically away from her as she swoops in. He clings pointedly to Dean, who opts to let his face do the talking, and just glares.

“Whatever,” Meg replies with a shrug, turning on her high heel and clicking off to collect her shit, presumably. “You’re all losers.” 

“Boy,” Charlie remarks, reaching out with her foot from across the way to prod at Cas’ knee. “Betcha you’re glad to have dodged that bullet, huh?” 

“Very,” Castiel murmurs, squeezing Dean’s knee as he watches Meg disappear into the shared bedroom. Dean beams smugly, doesn’t try to hide it one bit.

“That’s not all,” Lana pipes up, and Dean’s heart stutters in his chest. He’s pretty confident that no matter what happens, he and Cas are going home together, but it would suck for either one of them to have to leave early. As for the cash—on the one hand, Dean knows they’ve messed up enough times to probably be excluded outright from receiving any prize money. But on the other, he and Cas have _both_ made real, genuine progress together. And wasn’t that the challenge?

“What now, Lana?” he asks.

“The process is almost over. And tonight, I would like to reward your hard work by giving you the chance to win back money.”

The reaction to Lana’s offer doesn’t need to be filmed twice; everyone is genuinely ecstatic. They’re jumping out of their seats, grabbing each other’s hands and cheering, but they should have known better—Lana never makes it that simple or easy. 

Victor seems to realize that first, waving his Moscow Mule accusatorily over in Lana’s direction. “What’s the catch, Siri?” 

“The fate of the group lies in the hands of just two people. Castiel, Dean. You two have broken the rules more than anybody else here. Now, you have the chance to make amends. Your challenge is to spend the night in the private suite with no physical contact at all. If you succeed, the prize fund will be returned to one hundred thousand dollars.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Victor mutters, throwing his hands up into the air and sending the contents of his drink flying. In response, Lisa shrieks and jumps out of the way of the sticky spray, rubbing what she can’t dodge off of her arm in disgust. 

“We’re not allowed to touch at _all?”_ Dean tries to clarify, but no one answers him. 

“We’ll give it our best shot,” Castiel says, fully non-committal, and Dean stifles a laugh by burying his face in Cas’ shoulder.

“Great,” Alicia scoffs, sinking down into the couch again. “Well, we all might as well get our rocks off tonight, since these two can’t keep their hands off of each other for more than two minutes, never mind a whole ass night in a private room.” 

To be fair, they’re not setting the best example at the moment, not with the way Cas is wrapped around Dean’s arm and Dean’s face is still pressed into his neck. He sits up defensively at Alicia’s words anyway. “Hey,” Dean protests, pointing an angry finger her way. “You’re just jealous.” 

“Damn right,” she sighs, but it’s without malice. “I’m gonna go home broke _and_ horny. Hey, any tips for scoring a hookup at an airport bar? Anyone?” There’s a rumbling of both agreement and awful suggestions, and for the first time, Dean actually feels bad about the way his and Cas’ actions have affected their new friends.

He chews his lip and glances over at Castiel, but he doesn’t need to say even a word out loud. With one look, Dean can tell that Cas is thinking the same thing he is. Fuck Lana, they have to do this thing for their friends. Because they deserve it, but also to prove all of these doubting motherfuckers wrong. If there’s one thing Dean Winchester doesn’t do, it’s lose a bet.

“Alright,” Victor says, depressingly resigned as he holds up his newly refilled glass. “To Dean and Cas. Hope it’s worth it.” 

_It will be,_ Dean thinks.

***

Rachel makes the rules crystal-fucking-clear as she walks them over to the suite. Once inside, _no_ touching. No hugging, cuddling, massaging, platonic showering or bath-taking together. No hand-holding, foot rubbing, tickling, or play-fighting. One touch and it’s game over, the money is gone for good. From the self-satisfied look she gives him as Dean closes the suite door, she’s already counted them out. 

Her mistake.

By mutual agreement, Dean and Cas give the cameras a good show before really settling in for the night. They chase each other around the room, laughing and shrieking and pretending that they have every intention of getting down and dirty any second. 

Cas fills the tub and lounges in it seductively, sloshing water around and doing his very best to tempt Dean into it with him. For his part, Dean lingers in the doorway, acting like it’s absolutely killing him not to jump in. 

He bites his lip, crosses his legs, blushes like a schoolgirl, and generally makes a big deal of acting like he’s truly torn, like he has no idea what he’s going to do. It’s not actually much of an act, or at least, it doesn’t require a ton of acting skills on Dean’s part. Cas’ slick, hard body is temptation personified, but Dean is resolved—he can make it _one_ night. 

“You’re comin’ home with me, right, Cas?” he flirts, tipping his chin in Castiel’s direction. “Straight from the airport, into my bed. No cameras, no Lana, nothing but you and me and whatever we wanna do together.” 

“I already had production change my ticket,” Castiel replies, unable to suppress the smile on his own face. “Two days ago, when we were allowed to call home, I told Jimmy. He’s very concerned.” Castiel laughs, swirling the water over his abdomen in a way that makes it ripple against his cut abs. 

_Rude,_ Dean thinks. Not about Jimmy, but the way the water draws attention to Cas’ body, when he can’t so much as touch. 

“You’ll have to stay over, when you bring me back next weekend. He wants the chance to grill you properly. Claire too, of course. Manny will likely just give you a Bible and tell you he’s praying for us both, so nothing to worry about there.” 

“Can’t wait,” Dean tells him, leaning his shoulder against the door frame and folding his arms across his chest in an attempt to quell his desire to lose every last dime left in that pot. “Sam’s, uh, concerned too, but I also think he’s kinda happy. He knows me well enough to get what a big deal it is that I—” He stops talking, snaps his mouth shut, somewhat unsure of what to say. Yeah, Cas is coming home with him, but he isn’t _moving in—_ not yet, anyway. Not that Dean doesn’t want him to. 

_One thing at a time._

“We’ll figure it out, Dean,” Castiel says gently, and when Dean refocuses his gaze, Cas has floated forward and is resting his arms on the edge of the tub. “I know you have a life in Lebanon, a job that you enjoy. I really don’t have that in Alma. Lebanon is close enough that I could still see my family whenever I like, and truthfully, I’m tired of being the failed triplet. The one that lives above his brother’s garage, that everyone is just watching, holding their breath in anticipation of another mistake. Since long before I came here, I’ve wanted to make a change. Turns out, I needed to put some distance between them and myself to do so.”

“This whole thing, I auditioned on a lark. It was supposed to be a last hurrah of sorts, and instead—well, Dean, I hope I’m not embarrassing myself to say that this feels like the beginning of the rest of my life.” Cas pauses, his cheeks flushing a little as he ducks his head. He clears his throat, tone brightening. “Do you think that Lebanon might benefit from a yoga studio? Perhaps if I win some of the prize money…” He trails off and shrugs with one shoulder, disturbing the otherwise placid water with his feet as they readjust underneath. “Regardless, if you and I feel the same out there as we do in here, we’ll make it happen. I have faith in us.” 

“You do?” Dean asks hopefully. When Cas looks up, Dean knows, _feels_ it in his bones—he’ll never tire of seeing that smile. “We are better together, aren’t we?” 

“Yes,” Castiel says. “We are.” 

***

No one’s more surprised than Rachel that they make it through the night. She’s at their door the minute Dean’s opening it, looking excited and genuinely thrilled, maybe the most honest Dean’s ever seen her act. She smacks him on the chest, calls him a sly dog, and then talks into her headset, telling some poor PA to get everyone down to the poolside-portico.

Apparently, production doesn’t want to risk not capturing everyone’s real reactions to the news, or the chance that Dean and Cas might deliver it before Lana has the opportunity. Dean can get that, although he’s somewhat salty about losing his and Cas’ last peaceful morning yoga session on the beach. Their flight leaves early tomorrow morning, it’s unlikely they’ll have time for one more before they have to head out. 

Dean quickly forgets about that when Cas steps outside the room and throws arms around his neck. He stops at the last second, limbs still hovering in the air, pulling back swiftly like he’s been burned and looking wide-eyed over at Rachel. “Am I allowed…?”

She giggles, tossing her head back and waving her hand at them. “Go for it,” she says, and Castiel relievedly turns to Dean, this time grabbing him by the back of his neck to pull him close. They’d tried to rest on opposites sides of the bed during the night, but half-asleep, one of them would always end up reaching out for the other. After several near-misses, a grumbling Dean grabbed his pillow and rolled his touch-starved ass off of the bed and onto the floor. He slept the rest of the night very uncomfortably on the suite’s shaggy rug. 

It hasn’t even been twelve full hours, but the “good touches” Dean’s used to getting from Cas have been sorely missed. If there’s one thing Dean has learned about himself during his time here, it’s that he _needs_ this. Needs the platonic affirmation and comfort of a hand on his shoulder or the small of his back. Needs the boost he gets from Cas’ hand slipping into his, the _security_ he feels drifting off to sleep with strong arms wrapped around his waist. 

Right now, Dean shamelessly sinks into Cas’ embrace, relishing the way Cas’ nails scrape up his back and into his hair. Production was nice enough to bring clean swimsuits to their suite this morning (but not shirts), so both of their chests are bare, and Dean could stay pressed against Cas like this all fuckin’ day long. 

Except that it’s time to face the music.

Walking hand-in-hand onto the portico to a mixed round of cheers and boos, Dean can’t help but resent the way most of his castmates look resigned to their fate. _Come on,_ he wants to say, _friends have more faith in each other than this._ Cas taught him that. 

Charlie, at least, sends him a wink, her own hand wrapped firmly in Dorothy’s. 

Thankfully, it’s not more than a couple minutes after he settles onto the loveseat with Cas tucked under his arm that Lana chimes to life and lets them off the hook. Dean can’t resist needling everyone just once more, though, right before she does. “Don’t hate us,” he interjects, before Lana can begin speaking. “There were so many sex toys. It was basically Temptation Island in there, and have you _seen_ Cas do yoga? He can suck his own dick, you know.” 

Everyone groans and Victor looks more murderous than usual as Castiel loses it at Dean’s side, laughing so hard he turns red.

“Last night, Castiel and Dean spent the night in the private suite, and they were forbidden from any form of physical contact. If the test has been passed, all the money that has been lost will be returned to the prize fund,” Lana reminds everyone. There’s a dramatic pause, accompanied by some hand-signaling from the producers before she continues. “I can reveal that—”

Dean bites his lip and Cas digs nails into his thigh, like they both don’t know the outcome. But hey, maybe they don’t. Maybe one of those times Dean reached out in his sleep, he touched Cas’ arm. He doesn’t _think_ so, and it wasn’t intentional, but anything is possible. The suspense is palpable. Even Charlie looks nervous.

“—Castiel and Dean did _not_ have any form of physical contact.” The group erupts into hysterics—jumping up, cheering, and screaming happily as some kind of alarm blares from Lana’s speakers. “The prize fund stands at one hundred thousand dollars once again, and you will all be splitting it equally.”

The noise is deafening as everyone celebrates even harder, producers handing off bottles of champagne for them to shake and spray and pop. Dean hasn’t had any weed today and _still_ feels like he’s walking on air, accepting a bottle from Rachel only to immediately release the cork and soak both himself and Castiel from head to toe. He slings an arm around Cas’ neck and tugs him close, laying a big kiss on his cheek, unable to resist. It’s not a violation, but it’s flirting with danger. Dean doesn’t care at all.

“You crushed it, bro,” Victor tells him, after Dean finally releases Cas. He grabs Dean’s hand and yanks him into a hug, clapping him on the back. “Proud of you both.” 

Charlie bounds over then and does her best to gather both Dean and Cas into one hug with her little arms, with only partial success. She’s interrupted, though, by Dean and Cas’ watches going off simultaneously, lighting up green. 

“Oh shit,” Dean says. 

“Get your reward,” Lisa calls out, and Dean doesn’t hesitate to grab Cas and go to town. 

This kiss feels even more special than any of the ones they’ve shared before. They really did something here, showed everyone that their relationship _is_ real, and that it’s solid. That it’s more than just sex and attraction, that both he and Cas are fully capable of doing whatever they set their minds to, and fuck what anyone else thinks. 

Dean _feels_ capable, more so than he has in a very long time. 

And hell, he might’ve even helped Cas earn the means to jump-start the brand new life he’s been wanting in the process. Yoga studio, here they come.

With the ocean crashing like a soundtrack in the background of their kiss, Dean also feels _free_ , like his life is finally _his,_ like he can do with it whatever he wants to do. Maybe some of that will fade once he and Cas step off of the boat that’ll take them away from here and back to the real world. Maybe his lifelong sense of obligation to Sam and to Bobby will come flooding back in a way that Dean will again struggle to shake. 

Dean pulls back, looks deep into Castiel’s eyes, and realizes that it doesn’t matter. Cas will be there. Cas will help him through it. They’ll make it up as they go—together. 

***

_“TOO HOT TO HANDLE” PROMOTIONAL MATERIALS—APPROVED BY ALL PARTIES_

_RELATED NETFLIX MEDIA: THTH, QE, THTH: TTK_

_FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE:_

_The rumors regarding the most popular couple to come out of Netflix’s second season of “Too Hot To Handle” have been confirmed—Castiel Novak and Dean Winchester are engaged. Even more exciting, they have already completed negotiations with Netflix executives to film a coordinated crossover with one of Netflix’s other heavy hitters, “Queer Eye”. According to inside sources, the Fab Five will tackle taking Dean and Castiel’s apartment, Castiel’s yoga studio, and most importantly, their upcoming wedding from drab to fab, and Netflix cameras will be there to bring all of us along for the ride. We can’t wait to see these “Too Hot to Handle” lovebirds finally say “I do” on “Too Hot to Handle: Tying the Knot”, streaming exclusively on Netflix in April of next year._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leaving the door open for a possible sequel, depending. ;) I loved these two and their bond and would for sure like to come back to them again someday. If you enjoyed what you read, would you consider sharing it? 
> 
> Once again, thanks to Ani aka Hitori_Alouette for being so amazing and talented and wonderful, a true pleasure to work with who brought these guys to life better than I even could have imagined. Did I mention earlier that Cas' tattoo is literally 1000x prettier than it was in my head?!? Yeah, that was all Ani. And the shoutout to the Cockles kiss/champagne photoshoot in this chapter is just... *chef's kiss* GIVE HER ALL THE LOVE!!!   
> [Please don't forget to check out her Art Masterpost (tumblr)](https://hitori-alouette.tumblr.com/post/631197250904801280/art-for-too-hot-to-handle-by-castielslostwings-for)/[and kudos on AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26850148)!!  
> [Check out Ani on Tumblr!](https://hitori-alouette.tumblr.com)  
> 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Want to see what I'm working on next? Come follow me on:  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/caslostwings)  
> [Tumblr](https://castielslostwings.tumblr.com/)  
> or subscribe to my AO3 :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for "Too Hot to Handle"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26850148) by [HitoriAlouette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HitoriAlouette/pseuds/HitoriAlouette)




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